


The Evil Dead

by commodorecliche



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demonic Possession, Demons, Drug Use, Established Relationship, Evil Dead AU, Gore, Hell, Hell Spawn, Horror, M/M, Rehabilitation, Reibert - Freeform, Rekindling romance, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Terror, The Evil Dead, The Necronomicon, Violence, attack on titan - Freeform, jeanmarco, marcojean - Freeform, shingeki no kyojin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-23 02:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 48,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2530052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commodorecliche/pseuds/commodorecliche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When life becomes too much to handle, Marco turns to heroine to cope. Unable to help him, and terrified of what his boyfriend's drug abuse could do, Jean left with hardly a goodbye on his lips. Finally, after a year and half without contact with Marco, or... really anyone, Jean resolves to man up and help Marco overcome his addiction once and for all. </p><p>Holed up in a cabin for a weekend of Cold Turkey, Jean endures the weekend alongside Armin, Reiner, and Bertholdt as Marco suffers through a painful recovery. But after uncovering a mysterious book hidden within the cabin, the group comes to realize that the woods are far from isolated, they are hardly alone, and escape may not be possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on both the 1981 Evil Dead and the 2013 Evil Dead. Marco's drug abuse was derived from the 2013 Evil Dead adaptation. A couple scenes included in this fic have been derived from the 2013 film, as well. The rest is my own adaptation.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean sees some familiar faces.

Jean gripped the steering wheel of the jeep tightly, attempting to stay focused on the beaten path ahead of him. Reiner hadn't been joking when he said this cabin was out in Bumblefuck, Nowhere. The route along the main highways alone had taken him four hours, and he had been fighting the bumpy, muddy road ahead of him for almost an hour now too. He was glad he had left Trost early, but he was sure his friends had already arrived well before him. With a quick glance down at his cellphone, Jean sighed. He sure as hell hoped that Reiner's instructions were good enough to get him there, because he had absolutely zero cell service out here. Jean leaned forward, getting closer to the windshield, trying to see as much as he could of his surroundings as he drove.

_"It's all pretty much going to look the same,"_ Reiner had told him. _"But you're going to eventually come up on a fork in the road. To the right is just a bunch of brush, and to the left, you should be able to see a big pond. Take the path to the left and follow along the edge of the pond and past the creek that feeds it. You should dead-end right at the cabin."_

It was so foggy outside, he could barely see 10 feet ahead of him, but he was pretty sure he could see a slight turn in the path ahead. With a gentle tap on the brakes, Jean steadied the Jeep down to a stop. He fumbled it into park and hopped out, walking forward to where he hoped there would be a fork. Sure enough, as he strode through the soft, muddy ground, he saw where the path suddenly narrowed and split. He strode towards the left, glancing around and trying to see as best he could in the dense fog. He sure as hell couldn't tell if there was a pond, not with the thick layer of mist hanging around him. He turned his head back to glance at his Jeep; it seemed almost swallowed up by the fog, ready to disappear if he looked away for too long. With a bite to his lip, he craned his head the other way and tried to look down the path to the right, but saw nothing but trees and mist. He just had to hope the path to the left was the correct choice. 

Jean slugged through the mud back to his car and hopped in, cursing how filthy his floorboards and seat were going to be. He would have to be sure to clean this thing thoroughly when he got back. Throwing it back into drive, he surged forward, tires struggling against the slop beneath them, as he coxed the car to the left. He tried his best to look, but he just couldn't see anything that even resembled a pond on this road. The air and mist were so thick and stifling, that his anxiety began to build, until finally, a dark blotch ahead of him began to come into focus. Jean breathed out a small sigh of relief as he approached the cabin, already seeing his friends' cars parked outside. 

Reiner, Bertholdt, and Armin were waiting to greet him on the porch. As Jean slid from his car, Reiner jumped from the steps and strode towards him, embracing him in a short but intense hug. 

"Hey hot-shot, you made it." He boomed. 

"Yeah, no thanks to you, those instructions were shit. I didn't see a damn single pond." Jean laughed softly, before nodding towards Armin and Bert. "Hey guys." 

Bert merely smiled silently and waved, but Armin quickly embraced him in a tight squeeze. 

"Been a while, Jean." 

"Yeah, I know." Jean said softly, trying his best to hide the guilt that threatened to lace his words. "But I'm here. Where are Mikasa and Fuck-face?" 

"We thought it might be best if Eren didn't come... Mikasa decided to stay back with him." Armin didn't say more, but smiled softly and patted Jean's shoulder with a nod. Jean pursed his lips and turned his attention back to Reiner.

"So Reiner, finish all that schooling? You all certified and shit, now?" 

"Yup, Reiner Braun, RN, at your service." 

"I keep telling him he should wear one of those cute little nurse's hats, but he just won't go for it." Bert said softly with a giggle.

"It would suit you, macho-man." Jean paused for a moment, letting his tongue drag across his bottom lip before glancing around. "Where is he?" he asked quietly. 

"Around back." Bert piped up with a quick flick of his head. "I don't think he believed you were really coming." 

"Well, I did..." Jean let his canine dig into his lower lip for a moment and glanced to Reiner. "I'm gunna, I'm gunna go talk to him." 

"Sure, man." 

Jean stared down at his squelching shoes as they smushed into the mud below him. His steps were slow and deliberate, as he attempted to calm himself. Part of him wished he could simply stop in his tracks, turn around, get back into his car, and drive away from this place. But he couldn't. He couldn't run away this time. He rounded the backside of the house and looked across from him. His eyes quickly landed on Marco, who sat perched atop a large, uprooted stump, his legs pulled into his body tightly, his lips resting in a tight, thin line. Jean cleared his throat softly, and Marco's eyes snapped up to him. 

"...Ho-ooly shit." Marco murmured after a second. 

"Hey..." 

"You actually came." 

"I did." 

Marco unfolded his legs to dangle off the side of the stump. Jean glanced over him; Marco was thin, so painfully thin. His cheeks sunken in and ashen. Jean had never seen him look like this, had never seen his face so pale. Circles beneath his eyes stood in stark contrast against his skin, his freckles barely stood out anymore, washed away in the ashy grey of his complexion. Jean looked away. It had been so long, he'd forgotten how Marco could look like this, he'd forgotten how bad things had gotten before he'd left. He had forgotten the state he'd left Marco in. If he could have kicked his own ass, he probably would have. He felt the guilt begin to seep into his stomach, twisting hard, and he had to swallow thickly just to keep the agony down. Maybe he could have helped. Maybe if he hadn't left, Marco could have gotten better. 

"I look like shit, I know." Marco whispered. 

Jean's gaze rose quickly back to Marco's face, as he gnawed on his lip and avoided Jean's eyes. 

"No... You never look like shit. Don't think you're capable of looking bad."

Marco just chuckled, but said nothing. 

"You mind if I sit?" Jean asked quietly, gesturing to the small spot beside Marco atop the stump. 

"Sure..." Marco mumbled, scooting his body slightly to the side to give Jean more room. But Jean still couldn't help the way their arms pressed together as he sat beside him. 

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Marco cleared his throat. 

"This place is kinda weird, isn't it?" 

Jean laughed and nodded. 

"I think it's the fog. Fog makes everything at least fifty times creepier." Jean scuffed his shoes together, absently trying to toe off some of the mud that was caked to the bottom. "It should clear up tomorrow. I hope at least." 

Marco didn't reply. 

"Hey, I uh, I brought you something." Jean whispered as he dug into the front pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out a small metal chain, with a ring looped onto it, and held it out to Marco. Marco took it tentatively into his palm, holding the ring gently and running his fingertip over the black onyx on the top, where an infinity sign was engraved. Marco didn't look up, merely kept running his fingertip over the symbol softly. 

"I gave you this..." He mused reverently, a small smile starting to tug at the corners of his lips. 

"Yeah. You told me I should wear it whenever I needed some strength." Jean let out a breath. "I thought maybe… you might need it more than me right now." 

Marco didn't say anything to that comment. His fingers just kept tiddling over the symbol, and he smiled softly. 

"You kept it, after all this time?" 

Jean turned to look at him slowly. 

"Of course I did." 

With a smile, Marco took the chain and slid it over his head, letting the ring hang down against his chest, as he touched it again reverently. 

"I'm glad you kept it." 

Jean nodded at him, letting himself press his arm a little more firmly against Marco's arm. With a quick swing of his legs, Jean hopped down from the stump and attempted not to get caught up in the muck beneath him. 

"I'm gunna get my bags, yeah?" Jean said, turning quickly on his heel to head back towards the front of the cabin. He stopped as Marco's voice rang out behind him.

"Jean? I'm going to beat this, you know? I am." 

He craned his head back and let his eyes fall on Marco's face again. He tried to pinpoint the freckles that had so drastically paled against his skin. Instead, he met Marco's big, brown eyes. He felt dizzy, just staring at those eyes; those deep, pained, distraught eyes. He tried not to remember the pain in those eyes the last time he saw them. 

"And I'm gunna be here while you do. I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is considerably longer than this one, so buckle up. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all.


	2. The First Hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the group acquaints themselves with the cabin, leading to a few unpleasant discoveries.

The five of them stood on the porch, shivering slightly in the cold, all clutching their bags. Reiner was attempting to get the key in the lock to just turn and open the door. 

"Fuckin' thing's stuck or something..." He grumbled as he jiggled the key a bit more and nudged the door with his shoulder. 

"Man if I'd known you'd take this long, I woulda left my bag in the car." 

"Still a complainer, I see, Jean." Reiner smarted back to him. Jean was about to retort with his own snarky reply, when he heard Marco chuckle softly from behind him. Jean wanted to tell Reiner off, he really did, but just hearing that small chortle stalled him. He felt a sudden warmth boil up inside him that he hadn't felt in over a year. He just barely craned his neck, casting a quick glance at Marco, who simply smiled with one corner of his mouth and stepped a little closer to Jean. Jean turned his head back towards the door at the sound of a loud thunk. 

"God, finally!" Reiner boomed, as he pushed the door open roughly. 

The whole interior of the cabin was dark, with only the occasional small hint of light seeping into the room from the outside, illuminating the dust that hung stagnantly in the air. 

"Well then," Jean muttered, "Did your family specifically ask for the creepiest place or did they just get lucky finding this gem?" 

"Oh, Jeany-boy, you're _really_ lucky I like you. Come on." 

Reiner plowed forward, his hand gripping Bertholdt's as he led the taller man inside. Armin slid in behind them, his eyes darting around the place slowly, and beginning to feel along the walls for some sort of light switch. Jean turned his head to Marco, still standing behind him, and gestured for him to go ahead inside. Marco did so with an obvious reluctance in his stride, his steps hesitant before moving past the threshold of the cabin, Jean following quickly on his heels.

Armin was still feeling along the walls blindly, until Reiner found a lamp and flicked it on, illuminating the living room. There were a couple of couches, a large rug in the middle of the room, around the corner there appeared to be a small kitchen, and a closed door to the right. Reiner started pointing down the hall. 

"There's a master down there, I think that's where Bert and I are gunna camp. There's a second bedroom there”, he said, gesturing to the closed door in the living room, “it's got two queen beds in it, bathroom attached. So... however y'all want to arrange that. And then there's the couch, if someone wants it." 

"I can just take the couch," Armin volunteered quickly, dropping his bag on its cushions. "I don't mind, I sleep on the couch at home a lot anyway, so... That way Marco won't just be in a room alone, too. That is, if you're okay with that, Jean?" 

Jean paused for a moment, before having to remind himself that the bedroom supposedly had two separate beds. He nodded curtly. 

"Yeah, that's fine. You're right. He shouldn't be alone." 

"Thanks, guys..." Marco mumbled weakly, as he turned to investigate the second bedroom.  
Marco pushed the door open gently, leaning his head in and glancing around. There were two beds, neatly covered in black and white duvets, but the room was otherwise barren. No rug, no art or pictures on the walls, just the window, the sheer curtains, and the beds. He strode inside and plopped his bag on the bed closest to the window, as Jean came in a few strides behind him. 

"I'll take this one..." Marco said, "I...I know you hate sleeping close to the window." His voice was meek as he unzipped his bag and took out his toothbrush and toothpaste. Jean watched Marco's back as he moved, watching the outline of his frail, now-bony shoulders move underneath his baggy t-shirt. 

"Thanks," Jean whispered, almost afraid to disturb the room, as he placed his bag on top of the bed closest to the wall. He didn't bother to unzip it, instead sitting down atop the duvet and slipping his shoes off and kicking them aside. He rubbed his sock-clad toes against each other as he stared at the floor. Marco was still moving around on the other side of the room, doing god knows what. He couldn't have packed that many things. Until Jean thought of it. 

“Marco?" 

"Yeah?"

"Where's uh... where's the rest of your uh..." Jean trailed off, listening as he heard Armin or somebody rustling around in the kitchen. 

"The dope? Gone. Dumped it in the creek earlier. Reiner witnessed. No contraband here, sir." 

Jean couldn't deny the look of hurt and shame that suddenly graced Marco's face as he stared down at his bag and continued to busy himself. 

"I didn't, I didn't mean... I just wondered." 

"It's okay..." Marco mumbled. "I'm gunna do this. But, promise me... promise you'll stay with me? Promise me you won't leave? Like... like before?" 

And there it was. Jean felt the question jolt him in the chest like a hot knife. He hung his head and looked away, biting his lip. He wanted to assure Marco he wasn't going anywhere this time, but he hardly felt he had the right to expect Marco's trust on that. After all, it was him who had truly abandoned Marco. Marco, the grieving boy, riddled with pain and sadness at the loss of his father, struggling to make enough money to continue paying for college, struggling to have time enough just to keep his head above water. Jean hadn't been able to see it at the time, hadn't been able to understand why, god _why_ Marco had ever touched the stuff in the first place. Jean hadn't been able to help him enough, console him enough through his grief. No matter how long he held Marco as he cried, no matter how many soft kisses he had placed in Marco's hair, it had never helped. Jean hadn’t been able to understand what the junk had given Marco that he couldn’t give him. He still didn’t fully understand. But he supposed that he didn’t have to understand. Jean had been so self-centered, a complete and total selfish dick who had only ever pushed Marco away when he thought he couldn't help him. He had only ever pushed Marco away when Jean realized he didn’t even know _how_ to help him. 

He didn't know where Marco had gotten the junk, didn't know who had the gall to even offer it to him. But regardless, it had happened. And the minute Jean had discovered it, he panicked, in a frenzy of fear and terror and sheer, undeserved anger – all directed at Marco. He had run away, like the piece of shit he always knew he was. 

He couldn't expect Marco to trust that he would stay now. Jean hadn't earned that trust. And yet, somehow, here he was sitting across from Marco, a year and a half down the line, and Marco was begging him to stay. And stay he would. He wouldn't leave this time. 

"I promise." Jean whispered, trying like hell to conceal the way his voice broke. Marco stopped fidgeting with his bag suddenly, walking slowly towards Jean and sliding down to sit beside him on the edge of the mattress. Jean swallowed thickly. 

"You deserved... so much better than what I gave you." he whispered, shaking his head. 

Marco rested his hand softly against Jean’s shoulder before leaning over and wrapped his arms around Jean, clinging to him in a desperate hug. Before Jean could even think to say anything or protest, his arms were sliding around Marco, pulling the other man close to him, breathing him in, and telling himself this would all be okay. He clung to Marco like he hadn't in over a year, feeling how small and frail his body was now. Jean grit his teeth as his hands felt Marco's bones thin beneath his skin. He could only hold him tighter and hope his grip wouldn't tear Marco's paper-thin flesh. Every day, every single day, he'd thought about this boy. And here he was, wrapped in his arms, and it felt like he might break at any moment. Jean moved to bury his face in Marco's neck, but Marco pushed him away slowly, gently, and stood, scratching absently at his arms, with an odd look of... confusion, possibly even disgust... on his face. Jean tried not to think too hard about it. 

"Let's uh, let’s see what the others are doing." Marco said nervously, before leaving Jean alone in the bedroom.

::

As Jean exited the bedroom, he saw Bertl sitting on the couch reading and could hear Reiner and Armin in the kitchen, clattering plates and pans out of the cabinets. Marco was walking slowly from room to room, peeking his head in, before retracting and moving quickly to another room. Jean glanced at Bert and gave him a questioning stare. Bert could only shrug his own confusion, before turning his attention back to his book. Marco moved into the kitchen next, with a quick, exasperated exclamation.

"God, what is that _smell_?" he blurted, as he looked around the kitchen. 

"What smell?" Armin asked softly, setting the plates he had in his hands on the table. 

"You don’t smell anything?" Marco asked, bringing a hand to his face to cover his nose and mouth. Armin shook his head and glanced at Reiner. 

"I don't..." Reiner said, as he watched Marco pace suddenly into the living room again. 

"What exactly does it smell like?" Armin tried.

"Like… sulfur… Or like something died." 

"I still don't smell anything." Reiner tried again, walking towards Marco and turning him around to face him. "Look, you had your last dose a few hours ago. Shit's starting to come down. Withdrawal symptoms are gunna start to hit. You might just be hypersensitive right now." 

Marco clenched his eyes shut, running his hands over his face roughly, before gritting out a quiet "You're right, you're right..." and running his hands through his hair. 

"I just, I need to, I need some air." Marco said hurriedly, heading quickly out the front door. Jean started to go after him but Reiner grabbed his shoulder gently. 

"Guys," Reiner said softly, addressing the three of them, "the withdrawal symptoms are starting to hit him. He's getting antsy. He's hyperaware of his senses. He's going to start feeling pretty sick soon too. So just. Be prepared. It's probably gunna take about three days to work all the junk out of his system and get him past the withdrawal stage. But after that, I think we're good." 

Jean nodded and turned towards the front door once again, before Reiner stopped him for the second time. 

"Jean. You weren't here the last time we tried this... A few months ago in Jinae. We tried this whole cold turkey thing. He didn’t last long. Lasted, I guess, 10 or 12 hours, before he just... he couldn't take it, and he quit, and left, just disappeared. We didn't see him for two days. Next time we found him, he was in his apartment, totally strung out. Unresponsive. He almost overdosed. And we don't want to let him do something like that again. So all four of us need to be strong for him, and make sure he doesn't try and leave, that he doesn’t try to get somewhere that he can get this crap again. Maybe having you here this time, Jean, will help... Last time. Last time, all he could do was cry and scream for you. He just wanted you to be there so bad." 

"I-" Jean started to say, but Reiner held his hand up. 

"Look man, I'm not blaming you for what you did. You're human. Was it the right thing to do? No, but you were scared and confused, and you didn't make the best choices. But they weren't unreasonable choices either. All that matters is that you're here for him now. But remember, once the withdrawal really starts talking, he's gunna say a lot of different shit to try and get out of this. Especially to you, I think. So just.... stay strong, yeah?"

::

Jean stood at the window, watching as Marco sat atop the hood of his Bronco in the torrential downpour. Jean watched as Marco clutched his arms to his chest, then against his stomach, bowing over a bit before sitting up straight. He rubbed frantically at his arms, and Jean couldn’t really tell if it was because of the cold or the withdrawal.

"How's he doing?" Bertholdt asked softly, coming to stand behind Jean and glance over his shoulder out the window.

"I dunno. He's been out there a while." 

The two stood at the window, watching as Marco's behavior varied, constantly rubbing his arms and legs, tugging on his rain-soaked hair, hopping off the car, hopping back on top of it. Bert let out a small hmm, before heading to the door and opening it slightly, calling Marco's name and asking if he'd please just come inside. Marco only stopped moving for a moment, clenching his eyes shut before nodding slightly and sliding off the hood of his Bronco, moving to plod his dripping wet form inside. Jean had already slid back into the bathroom and grabbed a towel for him, but as Marco approached the threshold of the cabin, he stopped dead in his tracks, before turning away from the door and stumbling off the porch.

He landed on his knees in the muck, his arms barely supporting himself as he retched violently, vomit spilling onto the ground in front of him as he shuddered. Jean was after him in an instant, jogging into the rain and crouching down beside him, draping the towel around Marco’s shaking form. He ran a gentle hand across Marco’s back as the boy seized and gagged.

"Easy... Easy... Get it out." Jean whispered into his ear. 

"That fuckin’ smell…” Marco groaned. “It’s getting worse… God, how can you guys stand that stench?" he rumbled, his body seizing up a second time, as he heaved and retched up bile onto the ground. They sat there together, Bert watching them from the porch, Marco no longer heaving, but unwilling to move. They were both soaked through their clothes, and the rain was making it hard to see. But Jean kept his arm around Marco’s shoulder, giving him another reassuring squeeze, watching as the other man dug his fingers into the mud beneath them. 

He felt Marco convulse again for a moment, but nothing came up this time. Marco spat softly, tilting himself up a bit, leaning back on his heels, Jean's arm still supporting him slightly. With a surer arm, Jean attempted to coax Marco to his feet. He seemed reluctant, but followed Jean's lead steadily as they rose up to their feet. Marco swayed for a moment as he did so, but Jean's arm immediately slid from his shoulders to his waist to steady him better. With a few uneasy steps, they made their way back to the covered porch. Marco made no sign that he wished to proceed back into the cabin, so Jean simply eased him down into the chair on the porch, trying his best not to think about the way his hand had slid across the small of Marco's back as he'd done so. Jean knelt in front of him, leaning up to push Marco's soaked hair from his eyes, and turned his attention to his friends who were standing by the open door. 

"Are you sure there’s a smell? You’re sure this isn’t just… withdrawal?" Bert asked quietly, his voice giving way to his nerves as he spoke. "Screwing with your senses maybe?" He glanced at Reiner for some sort of reassurance, which the blonde returned slowly with a short nod. 

"This isn't the fucking withdrawal." Marco hissed out, his voice harsher than Jean had ever heard it before. Jean's gaze snapped to him immediately, his brow furrowed, and Marco quickly met his eyes. Jean watched as his face softened almost instantly and he lowered his gaze to his feet. "The uh... the throwing up... probably is. But that smell. I'm not imagining that smell." 

Bert started to speak up, but Armin put a hand on his shoulder, jumping in before Bert had the chance. 

"We'll look around, okay? We'll see if we can figure out where it's coming from, yeah?" 

Marco nodded slowly, and when Jean gestured that they should go back inside, Marco seemed reluctant. He seemed as if he wished to stay rooted in that chair for the remainder of the weekend, but Jean flicked his head again questioningly, as Reiner, Armin, and Bert all retreated inside. Marco sighed and did his best to push himself back up into a standing position. At the first sign of his struggle, Jean was beside him again, wrapping his arm around his waist and holding him tightly. Jean didn't want to think about how he had so desperately missed the way Marco's waist felt against his palms. Marco was smaller, bonier now than he was the last time Jean had held him like this, but it didn't matter. He was there beside him, in the flesh, standing flush against him. 

Once inside, Jean gestured to the couch, asking silently if Marco wanted to sit, but the other man merely shook his head. He unwound his arm from around Jean's shoulders gingerly, and mumbled an "I'm okay...". Jean nodded at him, and relinquished his grip around Marco's waist. Marco's hand immediately was over his nose and mouth, and a grimace laced is features. 

"Is there anywhere that it smells strongest?" Armin asked. Jean watched as Reiner appeared to be sniffing at the air too, perhaps trying to catch some sort of whiff of whatever Marco was smelling. The blonde caught Jean's gaze and shrugged. If Jean was honest, he couldn't smell anything either. But then again, his sense of smell had never been that on point to begin with. Marco hesitated, but began to walk around the living room, tentatively uncovering his nose as he did. He swallowed thickly and stepped quickly into his and Jean's shared bedroom. Jean watched curiously as he stood in there for a moment, looking around the room. He disappeared around the corner in the room, and Jean quickly strode in after him. Marco was standing outside the door that led to the bathroom. 

"In there." Marco whispered after another moment. Jean nodded and opened the door, as Bert and Reiner began to follow him in. Marco stayed back in the bedroom, sitting down on one of the beds and covering his nose again. The smell wasn't overbearing at first, but it was definitely noticeable now that Jean stood in this bathroom. He strode around slowly, investigating the toilet and sink, glancing over the floorboards, but seeing nothing. As he edged closer to the shower, his nose felt almost immediately overpowered. He strode towards it fully, trying to ignore the rancid odor. He pulled back the curtain quickly, but there was nothing inside. Reiner had come to stand beside him now, his own hand covering his nose as he looked over Jean's shoulder into the shower. 

"I don't see anything..." Reiner mumbled, his words muffled slightly by his hand. "But damn, there sure as hell is a fuckin’ stench." Reiner turned his head back to look at Marco. “How could you smell this from the freaking porch, though, man?” 

Marco didn’t reply. 

Jean moved forward silently, his eyes starting to rake over the wall of the shower. He thought it rather silly that a shower would have wooden walls, rather than something like tile or porcelain. But this place was clearly an older building. It certainly would explain the rot to be found on some of the boards. Reiner had already exited the bathroom, and Jean was about to follow suit, until a crack in the boards caught his eye. It was just about level with his chest. He reached his hand forward and tapped it lightly, hearing a slightly hollow sound resound back at him. With a quick flick against the board, he watched it wiggle a bit. 

"Guys, wait, there's a loose board here." He called out to the others. They quickly filed in, Reiner coming back to his side, Bert and Armin sticking by the door, as Marco wedged himself into a corner. Jean leaned forward and sniffed slightly, recoiling and gagging a bit at the putrid smell that assaulted his nose. 

"Oh god, it's gotta be here... Reiner, help me." 

Jean did his best to slide his finger into the crack on one side to gain some leverage, as Reiner did on the other side of the board. 

"Man, I'm never gunna hear the end of it from my parents for damaging this place..." Reiner mused softly, and with a quick tug from the two of them, the board came tumbling down, clattering at their feet. 

"Oh, jesus..." Bert said suddenly, his hands flying to his nose suddenly. 

"Shit, man, you weren't kidding..." Armin muttered in Marco's direction, already blocking his own nasal passages. "What's in there, Jean?"

"I don't know..." Jean's voice was nasally and high from holding his own nose. Marco hadn't been lying when he'd said it smelled like death. "I can't see in, it's too dark. Anyone's phone have a flashlight or something?" 

"Mine does."

Jean took Armin's phone into his hand, flicking the switch to turn the flashlight on. He took a quick glance at Marco, who was still firmly pressed into the corner, hand over his nose, eyes closed, and shivering slightly. Jean swallowed thickly and turned his attention back to the hole. With a bit of trepidation, Jean edged himself closer to the hole, holding the light up to shine inside as he craned his head to look in. He understood the smell immediately.

“Jesus, dude..." He muttered to himself. 

“What is it?" Bert asked. 

"Fucking birds... Fucking tons of birds." 

"Birds? What the fu-, let me see that." Reiner said harshly, snatching the light from Jean's grip and wedging up to the hole to look inside. Sure enough, stuffed inside the hole, piled up from the floor to roughly the level of their chests were the rotted remains of bird carcasses. Some were nothing but bones - broken up ivory pieces littered amongst the pile - others looked as if they'd just been placed there yesterday, the flesh just beginning to decay. Reiner stepped back for a moment, shaking his head and suppressing a small gag, before turning his attention back to the hole. 

"Jesus... Where the fuck did these even come from?" Reiner mumbled to himself, glancing down as far as he could into the wall cavity. If Reiner had been guessing, he'd figure there were at least 25 different carcasses there, stuffed inside the wall. He cleared his throat, before speaking again, more softly this time. "Wait. Wait a minute, there's something else here." 

"What, really?" Jean asked, his hand already snatching the phone back from Reiner and stepping up to the slat. "Oh shit, there is..." 

"What is it?" Armin asked. 

"Fuck if I know, but I'm sure as hell not reaching my hand in there to grab it." 

"Gimme my phone back, I'll get it. Where is it?" 

"Sick, Armin. I don’t think you should put your hand near that shit." 

"It's alright, give me my phone." 

Armin took the phone and shone it into the slat again. 

"Where is it?"

"The black thing, near the back of the wall, just be careful. It’s on top of the fucking birds; who knows what kind of shit is on those things..." 

"Right, I see it. Hang on..." 

Armin had to stand on his tiptoes to fully reach into the wall, but he showed no hesitation or discomfort as he reached as far as he could, body pressed flat against the wall as he strained. 

"Almost got it. There!" He exclaimed, pulling back out and sliding a large rectangular item out of the slat. 

"What is it?" 

"I don't know. Looks like it's wrapped up in a garbage bag or something." 

Armin turned the object over in his hands, fingers touching the black plastic and electrical tape that had been so tightly bound around it. 

"I feel like we shouldn't be fucking with this stuff, man." Bertholdt said as flatly as he could, trying his best to hide the slight quiver that threatened to seep into his words. Reiner was quickly by his side, sliding his hand into his partner's and interlocking their fingers. Armin said nothing in response, merely kept staring at the item held in his arms, as he moved past his friends, walking of the bathroom. The others had no choice but to follow him as he headed back into the living room towards the desk, where he sat the item down gently. 

"Anyone have a knife or something?" He asked, eyes never leaving the object. No one offered one up. 

"Is no one else like seriously wigged out by this?" Bert tried again, raking a hand through his hair. 

"It's pretty fucking weird..." Jean muttered, turning his head around and letting his eyes land on Marco, who had made a point to stay well to the back of the group. He furrowed his brow gently in Marco's direction, silently asking if he was okay. Marco seemed to understand and nodded quickly. Jean tried not to think about the ease at which the two of them could still converse without words. Some things never changed, he mused. He turned his focus back to Armin, who was holding a small pocket knife in his hand and was tentatively tearing through the black plastic and electrical tape. Jean wondered where he’d gotten the knife. It wasn’t like Armin to carry one…

"It's a book..." Armin mumbled as he finished unwrapping it.

The book was a dark, fleshy color. The cover was lumpy and uneven, with different splotches of brown, beige, and red littered all over it. Marco did his best not to look at it, feeling his stomach drop hard at the sight of it. It looked leathery, but sloppy, as if it had simply been sewn together in a matter of seconds, rather than crafted finely. Bert turned his attention to Reiner quickly.

"And you don't know anything about this? I mean, this is your place, babe." 

Reiner shook his head. 

"No, no fucking clue. Honestly, we haven't used this place in years, not since I was little... I think the last time we came was for my 10th birthday? I remember we had to cut the trip short... Dad got bit by an animal, a coyote or something, I think. After that we just... didn't come anymore." 

"So why keep the place?" Jean asked curiously, his brow furrowing as he looked at Reiner.

"I don't know... They never wanted to sell it. Never wanted to rent it out." Reiner paused for a second, his eyes landing on the book again. "But that certainly wasn't here the last time I was... Maybe some freaks broke in at some point... Put it here, I honestly don't know." 

Armin had hardly been paying attention to their conversation. His focus was solely on the book lying before him, his fingers had been trailing over the outside of the book hesitantly as he inspected it with a curious, furrowed brow. He flipped open the cover slowly, revealing the first page. The pages were thick and ridged, and were covered in a messy dark red text, over which Armin let his finger drag. 

"It looks like Latin... Or… Sumerian? I’m not sure." Armin squinted his eyes, leaning closer towards the text. "It says..." 

Just as Armin began to speak, Bert rushed forward and put his hand on the cover, slamming the book closed immediately. Armin reared back a little, glancing up at Bertholdt with a look of confusion and offense.

"Okay, no." Bertholdt started, "No, no, I am drawing a firm line in the sand on this one. Let's not read the Latin." He barked urgently.

"What? Why not?" Armin asked incredulously. 

Bert stared at him flabbergasted. He shook his head in disbelief, his eyes glancing to everyone else in the room. 

"Do you guys even _watch_ horror movies? Christ. Why would you _want_ to read it?"

"I'm curious..." 

"Ah, Jesus, see, you -" Bert boomed, his finger coming up to point at Armin quickly, "you're the idiot - no offense - who gets everyone killed in the horror movie. There's always some guy or girl who finds some fucked up book and decides it's a great idea to recite the Latin. And because of that brilliant idea, they wind up summoning Satan's asshole or something, and everybody dies. So no, fuck no, here's my line in the sand. That's a terrible idea. Don't read the fucking Latin." 

"I didn't realize you were superstitious..." 

"I'm not superstitious, Armin. But that shit looks like trouble and I want nothing to do with it. Hell, you _just_ saw that book surrounded by a bunch of dead birds shoved into a wall and wrapped up like Satan’s Christmas present. If that's not a sign to not screw with this, I don't know what is."

“I agree with Bert," Marco chimed in quietly, chewing harshly on his thumbnail, his eyes suddenly transfixed on the book resting on the desk. "Even if it's harmless... Let's just leave it alone." 

Armin paused for a moment, simply staring at Bert and Marco, before throwing his hands up. 

"Okay, fine. We'll leave it alone." 

Jean couldn't help but note the hint of frustration behind Armin's voice. Reiner cleared his throat. 

"Let's go figure out what to do with the birds so we can get that smell out of here..." the blonde said. Jean sighed and nodded. 

"Yeah, we gotta sleep by that. Don't want that stench seeping into my clothes." 

"I think there are some garbage bags under the sink. We'll get them out and toss them outside, I guess..." Reiner mumbled, retreating to the kitchen and opening up the cabinets. Jean filtered back into the bedroom first, before stepping hesitantly through the threshold to the bathroom. He quickly brought his hand to his face again, attempting desperately to shield that smell from his sinuses. How had they not noticed that stench? He stared at the slat in the wall by the shower, his brow furrowed. How had Marco been the only one to smell it? Jean wasn't sure how long he stood there, his eyes focused on the wall. He didn't want to approach it but didn't want to take his eyes off of it either. But he couldn't ignore the feeling of unrest that was steadily filling his chest. The only thing that broke his focus was the feeling of Reiner brushing past him with a couple garbage bags in one hand, and another wrapped around his other hand so he could grab the birds. 

"Are we even gunna be able to reach them all?" Bert asked softly, his brow furrowed as he tried to peek into the slat again. 

"I guess if we have to, we can try prying off this lower board here..." Reiner replied, tapping the bottom slat with his shoe. "Should let us get to the bottom ones if we need to..." 

"Reiner?" Jean interjected from behind them. "Aren't you at all curious how this got here?" 

"Frankly," the blond started, already reaching his bagged hand into the hole and snatching up a couple of carcasses, "I don't want to know. Like I said, maybe some kids broke in, I don't know. I don't want to know. Let's just get the birds out and get through the weekend, okay?" 

"Right..." Jean paused, gnawing roughly on his lower lip. "What do we do with the book?" 

"I put it in the kitchen for now..." Armin piped up from behind Jean. "I'm not sure what to do with it." 

"I can tell you what _not_ to do with it," Bert whispered sarcastically into the hand covering his nose and mouth as he held one of the garbage bags out for his partner. 

Jean didn't stay to hear if Armin replied to the comment or not. He slid out of the bathroom and through the bedroom, making his way determinedly to the kitchen. As he rounded the corner, he caught sight of Marco, sitting still at the kitchen table, his eyes transfixed on the book in front of him. His hands were planted firmly on either side of the text as he stared. 

"Marco?" Jean tried softly, but Marco didn't budge. 

Jean approached him steadily, pulling out the chair beside the freckled man, and sitting himself down softly. He glanced down at Marco's hand and without thinking, rested his own atop it, gripping Marco's fingers softly in his. Marco jumped violently at the contact and jerked his hand away as his head whirled to the left to look at Jean. 

"Hey, easy. It's just me." Jean mumbled quickly as Marco stared at him with wide eyes. His friend blinked slowly, pressing his eyelids shut determinedly before opening them again. He looked as if he might be sick. 

"Marco, you're freaking me out here man...." Jean tried again, daring to take ahold of Marco's hand again. This time, Marco didn't fly away from him, but relaxed. His eyelids dropping a bit, and the tension leaving his face. Marco shook his head slowly, rolling his hand in Jean's grip to give it a slight squeeze before pulling it away. Jean tried not to focus on the disappointment he felt at the loss of contact. This wasn't about him. 

"I'm okay... Feel like d-death, though." 

"Is the smell still bothering you?" 

"Not like before..." 

"Yeah, they're bagging up the birds, kay? They'll be out soon... I'm pretty sure I brought some cologne too, so maybe we can overpower it or something..." 

Marco merely nodded, but said nothing, his gaze lowering to stare again at the book in front of him. Jean watched him swallow thickly, his brow furrowing slightly as he stared and leaned back into his seat, away from the table. 

"I don't like this book." 

"It's fucking weird..." Jean conceded, but Marco shook his head. 

"It's more than that... I want it gone." 

Marco began to tremble a bit, bringing his arms up so he could thread his fingers into his hair. A small, choked sob slipped past Marco's teeth as he clenched his eyes shut. He groaned aloud and tugged on his hair again. Jean realized quickly that the full effects of the withdrawal were beginning to slam against Marco's brain and body. He glanced out the kitchen window quickly and noticed the slowly setting sun. He wondered to himself how bad the first night might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's all be proud of Bertholdt for being the goddamn voice of reason. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all.
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


	3. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco attempts to endure the first, horrible stages of withdrawal, and he and Jean deal with some resurfacing emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little fluff in this chapter, with a little scare as well!

The first night was hell. 

Marco grabbed himself a glass of water before retreating into the bedroom, leaving Jean and the others sitting in the living room, discussing what to do with the book. Bert seemed to be the only one, aside from Jean, insisting that the thing be left the hell alone. Armin, bless his curious soul, wanted nothing more than to just… figure out what exactly the book was. Reiner seemed to just want a decision. The smell from the bathroom wasn't so bad now that the birds were gone, but it still lingered. And even though normally, Marco might bask in the scent of Jean's cologne, the piney smell of it now, attempting to overpower the rotted stench from earlier did nothing but turn his stomach. Marco could feel the different scents creeping up his nose and invading his brain. He sat on the edge of his bed, his whole body quaking, as he stared at the trash can Jean had made sure to put by his bedside. He could feel his body wanting to seize, could feel his esophagus growing shorter and tighter as the bile in his gut threatened to take over and expel itself. He clenched his eyes shut and shivered, doing his best to hold onto his glass of water. He could feel the liquid sloshing over the sides of the glass as his body shook, wetting his hand, but he couldn't bring himself to care. 

It wasn't until he felt the glass slide from his grip, shattering at his feet, that he saw Jean rush into the room in a flurry of movement. Marco hadn't even heard it hit the floor, the sudden ringing in his ears too overpowering, blocking out the sounds of the room. He could just vaguely hear Jean speaking as the boy knelt down at Marco's feet, trying to scoop the glass away from Marco’s bare toes. But he couldn't understand the words... the sounds were all much too muffled to his ears. And so he watched with bleary eyes as a few shards of glass slipped into Jean's palms as he scooped them up. If Jean reacted to the tiny injuries, Marco couldn't be sure. In the buzzing, Marco brought his hands up to his temples and shook his head, trying to stop the rushing ache that had overtaken him. He blinked hard, and the next thing he knew, the glass was gone from his feet and Jean was beside him, a couple bandaids on his hands, and he was easing Marco back to lie down. 

Marco closed his eyes and let himself be guided back onto the mattress, lying steadily on his side and curling into himself. His body still quaked, but Jean's voice was slowly coming into focus. 

"Shhh..." Marco heard him say. "I'm here." 

Marco felt fingers rake slowly through his sweat-drenched hair, pushing it gently off his forehead. He suddenly felt very tired. He reached his trembling hand out, and felt Jean take hold of it gently, letting his thumb rub lightly across his knuckles. Marco tried to quell his shaking, tried to quell the burning cold that seemed to wrack his entire body. He'd forgotten how horrible this could feel. There was a sudden fear boiling up inside him, a sense of dread he hadn't felt in several months. A desperate ache that told him Jean would leave, Jean would leave him and he would be alone, just like last time. He choked out a breath, as he felt the mattress shift, Jean lifting his weight up off of it to stand.

Desperately, he grappled out for Jean's hand again, barely grabbing it as the other man stood up. 

"J-J-Jean.... Don't.... Don't... leave... me..." 

Jean didn't reply, and Marco slowly opened his bleary eyes to meet Jeans. 

"P-please..." he hissed desperately through his teeth. 

Jean had already freed his hand from Marco's grip, and Marco clenched his eyes shut again, his fist grabbing hold of the sheets as he cried out at the pain that thrummed within his head. Jean had left him. 

But after another beat, he felt the mattress dip behind him and an arm wrapped around him and nudged him backwards. He felt a warm chest press against his back as Jean's nose touched his cold, sweaty neck. 

"I'm here. I got you." Jean whispered softly into his nape.

Marco didn't know when the tears started, but he couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to. The tears streamed down his cheeks as the feelings overwhelmed him. The pain, the sickness, the terror... the relief as Jean's arm stayed firm around his trembling form. They lay there together, as Marco wept and shook and clenched his eyes shut to try and just make it stop, his only comfort the feeling of Jean's fingers trailing gently up and down his arm and Jean’s breath grazing across the skin of his neck. 

The last thing he remembered before falling into a fitful sleep, was the soft, gentle lull of Jean singing into his ear. 

_"Sometimes... I'm terrified of my heart. Of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants... The way it stops... And starts..."_

::

_Marco…_

_Maaaaaarcooo…_

_MARCO!_

Marco awoke with a jolt and a throbbing ache in his head and a hard thump-thump-thump-thump in his chest. He looked around the room slowly, noting it was pitch black now. He could hear the steady pounding of the rain on the roof of the cabin. It was definitely raining harder than it had been earlier. Drawing in a shaky breath, Marco tried to figure what time it could be. It had to be late… The sun had just set when he had gone to lie down, and the rain had been barely at a drizzle at that point. He closed his eyes and sighed slowly before reaching over steadily to feel for his phone. He still felt queasy and his muscles ached all over, but he had to admit, he felt better than he had when he had first come to rest. As he stretched his body, Marco noted that there was a slight weight atop his waist. He glanced down, seeing the faintest outline in the darkness of Jean’s arm draped loosely around him. Marco paused for a moment, trying not to think too hard about the arm’s presence, but rather simply savor the small ounce of security it gave him. No matter the pain, no matter the sickness, no matter the anxiety, that arm was there around him, keeping ahold of him. He stretched out as much as he could without moving his body too dramatically and snagged his phone. 

As he flicked the screen on, his eyes burned at the sudden brightness, and he glanced with squinting eyes at the time. 

3:33 am. 

Still time to sleep. At this point, Marco figured sleep was the best thing to get him through the weekend in one piece. He laid his phone down on the mattress and relaxed back, trying not to move or scoot _too_ close to Jean. But as he relaxed, he felt Jean’s arm begin to tighten around him and pull him closer as Jean began to nuzzle his nose into the short hairs on the nape of his neck. 

Jean always used to do that… Anytime he would feel Marco stir during the nights, he would nuzzle himself into the back of Marco’s neck. Old habits died hard, Marco supposed. Marco closed his eyes with a shaky sigh. Some habits were okay to live on, he thought, as Jean’s breath warmed his chilled skin. 

The rain continued to thrash the roof above him and pelt against the window whenever a decent gust came through. He kept his eyes closed, trying to find some relaxation in the sounds of the storm. The rain was loud, but constant, and the soft lull of thunder that began to roll through the atmosphere was enough to calm him. He was tired, and he could feel himself drifting off, until a giant, sudden clap of thunder forced his eyes open, his heart pounding. 

Lightning began to flash sporadically with the booms of the thunder, and Marco took a deep breath, trying to focus on falling back to sleep before his body began to resent him too much and start up the withdrawal process in full. But as his eyes were slipping closed again, his body beginning to calm, his vision blurring slightly as his eyes drooped, a large flash of lightning sparked, illuminating the porch.

Illuminating the unmistakable silhouette of a man on the porch. 

Illuminating the unmistakable silhouette of a bone-thin man staring in through their window. 

Marco’s eyes flung open wide as he exclaimed suddenly. He fumbled backwards as much as he could, his back shoving back into Jean’s chest with a thud, his gaze transfixed on the figure looking in at him. Its eyes were a penetrating red, its left eye burning brighter than the right; eyes that seemed entirely locked on him. As he scrabbled and scrambled, plastering himself against Jean, he could feel the other man stirring.

“JEAN!” Marco shouted, and Jean was immediately at attention. 

“What, what is it? Marco? What’s wrong?” He asked, trying to get his arms back around the boy who was struggling to push his way back into him and away from the window. 

“The fucking window!” He shouted, turning his gaze towards Jean, “There’s someon-…” 

Marco’s voice stopped mid-sentence, his mouth snapping shut as his eyes fixed on the window again. There was nothing. Marco sat up fully in one swift motion as Jean glanced around him at the window as well.

“There’s nothing th- Woah, what are you doing? Marco?!” 

But Marco paid him no mind, already throwing the covers off of himself. He scrambled off the bed and moved quickly to fling open the door of their bedroom. He charged into the living room, hauling open the front door and nearly falling in a stumble out onto the porch. Marco could hear Armin muttering something inside the house, his voice laced with sleep, mumbling to Jean, asking what was wrong, but Jean rushed through without answering, joining Marco quickly on the porch. 

“Marco, what the hell’s going on?” Jean asked, trying to grab onto Marco’s shoulder, but Marco was pacing across the porch, peering out over it to the sides of the cabin as best he could. 

“The fuck’s happening out here?” Reiner’s voice grunted out, his footsteps heavy on the wooden floors.

Jean turned his head to look at him and Bert, standing in their boxers and t-shirts in the doorway. Marco had stopped dead in his tracks, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes fixated out ahead of him now, watching the woods through the rain. His toes felt like ice against the damp, cold boards beneath his feet. He panted heavily, his breath coming out in short, hot puffs, not moving from his spot as he stared. 

“There was someone here…” Marco hissed out through clenched teeth.

“What do you mean ‘here’?” Bert asked, his voice husky with sleep and laced with confusion. 

“On the fucking porch, someone was here, looking through the window.” 

Jean stepped forward, letting his hand slowly grip Marco’s shoulder.

“You thought you saw someone looking in?” 

“No! I fucking _did_ see someone. They were right outside the fucking window.” He exclaimed before turning his attention back to the woods. “Where the fuck are you?!” He screamed into the blackness, his voice drowned out still by the constant thrash of the rains.

No answer returned. 

“I’m going back to bed…” Reiner said. “Go the fuck back to sleep, Marco. This will pass.” 

With that, Reiner and Bert retreated inside, followed by a decidedly drowsy Armin. Marco didn’t budge, his fists still clenched and flexing, nails digging into the palm of his hand as he looked out at the blackness. Jean moved to touch his bicep, giving the muscle a squeeze, still gentle, still tentative.

“Let’s go inside, yeah?” He tried softly. 

Marco’s hands flew to his face. He was fucking losing it. He clenched his eyes shut, fingers threading up into his hair to tug on it in a short, frustrated burst. He wasn’t fucking crazy. 

“I _saw_ someone…” He hissed out tremulously as he turned his head to look at Jean, eyes wide and pupils blown, glassy and threatening to break any minute now. 

Jean rubbed his bicep again softly. 

“I believe you. But we need to go inside.” Marco didn’t speak or move, his feet still planted firmly against the wooden porch. “Please, Marco…” Jean tried again, his hand hesitantly sliding down Marco’s arm before gripping his hand. “Please…” 

Marco stared at their clasped hands before darting his eyes back to the woods. With a curt nod he turned and let Jean lead him inside. As he slipped through the door, he dared another glance back, his eyes freezing as they attempted to lock on a shape that had suddenly appeared in the downpour. But the door was already closing before he could decide whether or not that dark, humanoid splotch he thought he saw out of the corner of his eye was there or not.

::

Marco didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. Jean had managed to get him to at least sit on his bed, rather than pace the room, before the other man drifted off into sleep in his own bed. Marco felt like hell, his body aching, head throbbing, and he couldn’t stop the shivers that ran up and down his spine. At least twice, he had felt his stomach churn, threatening to expel the empty, burning bile from him, but he had fought it. Marco could endure a lot of things, but throwing up would bring him to his knees, and he knew it. He was such a baby about vomiting. So he swallowed hard, forcing the bile down, willing his stomach to relax as best he could.

He sat there with his knees pulled tightly against his chest, his back against the headboard for god only new how long. He wanted to lie down, but he just couldn’t, couldn’t bring himself to even _pretend_ to relax in his own empty bed as his eyes stayed fixed on the window across from him. More than a few times, he swore he saw things moving in the forest, at which point he would clench his eyes shut, count backwards from ten, and tell himself _it’s just an animal, just an animal, just a stupid fucking animal, you idiot_. 

Marco craned his neck to the right, turning his attention to Jean’s bed. Jean was snuggled up beneath the blankets, his mouth open, breath coming out in short, easy puffs. Marco didn’t really think before he stood from his bed, his toes recoiling at the cold wooden boards beneath them, and strode over to Jean’s bed. He turned his head back, eyes landing on the window, and told himself he was just doing this to put a little more distance between him and the pane of glass. He eyed the covers and gently slid them back before tentatively dropping his weight onto the mattress and sliding his frigid cold legs beneath the comforter. He did his best not to brush them up against Jean’s, not wishing to disturb the other man. Marco kept his back to the window, not wishing to dare another glance at it, as he edged his way completely under the covers beside Jean. 

Despite his best efforts to slip in unnoticed, he saw Jean begin to stir, nuzzling his face deeply into his pillow before steadily open his eyes. He met Marco’s with softness, not tensing or startling at the freckled man’s unannounced presence in his bed. Instead, Marco felt Jean shifting, until a soft, gentle hand landed on his bicep and urged him closer, Jean’s warm leg coming to lace across Marco’s freezing one, edging the two of them closer until their foreheads pressed together. 

Jean’s eyes slipped closed again, his hand moving sleepily up to Marco’s neck, his fingers toiling soothingly in the short hairs on Marco’s nape.

“Th-thank you…” Marco whispered. 

“Shhh.” Jean replied calmly, eyes open now and looking right into Marco’s. Their noses brushed softly, and Marco felt the first sense of calm since he had gotten here. The first feeling of serenity since… well, since Jean had left over a year ago. He closed his eyes slowly, reveling in the feeling of Jean’s warm breath mingling with his own. 

“I didn’t think I’d feel this again…” He sighed into the darkness.

“Feel what?” Jean asked sleepily, his fingers never stopping their gently strokes along Marco’s hair. 

“Just… you. This.” 

Jean didn’t reply. Marco licked his lips in the darkness before breathing out his next words slowly. 

“I… I missed you…” 

“Marco…” Jean started, his hand stopping its gentle strokes, and gripping Marco’s neck surely. “I’m so- I’m so sor-“ 

“Don’t say it… Please.” 

“I need to, though.” Jean’s eyes were closed now, clenched shut as his words left his lips, barely above a whisper. “I’m so fucking sorry. I never should have left… And I left when you needed me. I don’t even deserve to be here right now. But I’m here and I’m sorry, and I’m not going anywhere this time… I’m gunna be here down to the wire, okay? Come hell or high water.” 

It was hard to tell, but Marco could have sworn his saw a small tear slip from Jean’s eye and land softly on his pillow. When his eyes opened again, they met Marco’s own deep, brown ones. Marco’s eyes stood out so much now, so prominent against his pale, ashen skin. Jean couldn't look away, his hand moving from Marco’s neck to rest against his cheek, before he leaned forward and pressed their lips together softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a little bit softer chapter. Jean and Marco are beginning to readdress their lingering feelings for each other. Some shit is going to go down in Chapter 4 though, so hang on tight. 
> 
> As always, feedback is welcomed and appreciated. :) 
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all. 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


	4. That Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Marco realizes they shouldn't stay out at the cabin, but that he will not be allowed to leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features some graphic depictions of violence, just as a warning. Kind of to be expected from this whole fic, but I wanted to let y'all know beforehand.

Marco didn’t sleep for the rest of the night. It didn’t take long for Jean to slip back into slumber as the two of them rested together and held each other. But Marco couldn’t. As the sun began to rise, its golden beams piercing through the veil of fog and rain, which was now merely a drizzle, Marco could hear his friends beginning to rustle around in the kitchen. He gently craned his neck, looking back over his shoulder at the window, feeling his anxiety begin to build almost instantaneously as he stared through the foggy pane. 

Jean would be with him down to the wire, he said. He would stay with him through this, no matter what. Which meant Jean would stay by his side no matter where he decided to this. He licked his lips, and resolved himself. They would leave today. He wouldn’t stay here another night. 

Without another thought, he untangled himself from Jean’s limbs slowly, standing and leaning down to grab his bag from off the floor. He began to haphazardly shove his personal items into it, not taking the time to fold them or organize them as he did so. His head was fucking _pounding_ now that he was standing up, the ache radiating deep, pulsing behind his eyes. He tried his best to work through it, trying futilely to quell the tremor that had returned in his fingers as he gathered his things. He zipped it quickly, and flung the strap over his shoulder, before leaning over to shake Jean and wake him. 

“Hnnnh?” Jean muttered. 

“Jean, wake up.” He said again. 

“Yeah, yeah, fine.” Jean’s eyes cracked open, taking a glance around Marco and at the fresh sunlight filtering in through the curtains. He flung his head back against the pillow. “God, whyyyyy are you people up so fucking early?” He groaned as he sat up gradually. His hand came up to rub his face, before he caught sight of the bag on Marco’s shoulder.

“Why do you have your bag?” 

“Come on.” Marco answered instead, before exiting the bedroom. Jean furrowed his brow and swung his legs over the side of the bed, leaning down to the floor to grab his hoodie and slid it on. 

Voices were coming from the kitchen, soft at first, then loud and stern. Jean stood and strode out of the bedroom, rounding the corner to see the others standing in the dining area. 

“The fuck are you talking about?” Reiner said harshly to Marco.

“I _have_ to get out of here, Reiner…” 

“Why?” the blonde asked, his voice blunt and unwilling. 

“I-I don’t… I don’t know how to explain it….” 

“No way, man.” Bert said flatly, shaking his head before taking a long sip from a steaming mug in his hand. 

“G-Guys,” Marco stuttered, grabbing ahold of the taller man’s shoulders, “I will finish this, I will see this through to the end, but please, god, I need to get out of here. We don’t _have_ to stay here… I feel like I’m going fucking crazy.”

“I’m sorry, Marco.” Reiner replied, busying himself with a pan underneath the sink and turning on the stove. “We’re staying.” 

“What’s going on?” Jean piped up, announcing his presence to the room. 

“He wants to leave.” Armin said, turning his head to face Jean.

“I _need_ to leave, Jean. _We_ need to. All of us.” 

“No damn sale.” Reiner said, more firmly this time. “I know it’s hard, but you’re gunna have to tough this out.” 

Marco let out an exasperated breath, adjusting the bag on his shoulder, before turning his attention to Jean. His eyes were desperate and pale, the black circles beneath them making his face look even more sullen and sunken than it already was. 

“Jean, please, take me home.” 

There was a moment when Jean wanted to. He wanted to grab Marco and run, take the two of them out of that cabin, back home where they belonged. He would go back to Jinae for Marco. They could just let everything go back to normal. But they couldn’t do that, not now. Normal wasn’t an option anymore, and Jean knew that. He broke Marco’s gaze, eyes falling to the floor, with a small shake of his head to say ‘no’ as gently as he could. 

Marco was baffled. He stared at Jean, mouth open slightly, his brows knitted together in confusion. 

“Jean?” he asked incredulously.

Jean merely shook his head ‘no’ again, mumbling a quiet. “I’m sorry, Marco…” 

There was a still silence for several moments in the kitchen, the heaviness of it settling down atop Jean’s shoulders like a ton of bricks. Armin fiddled absently with his jeans, Reiner began to crack a couple eggs, and Bert stared down at the mug between his hands. 

“I don’t believe this…” Marco started, his breath coming out in wild, uneven pants. 

Jean didn’t have to look up to know it was aimed at him. 

“I thought, Jean… Last night… I thought just this time, that I could fucking count on you… But I guess I was wrong.” 

Jean startled slightly as a small, metallic clang sounded out against the floorboards. On the floor in front of him was the chain and ring Marco had been wearing. Marco darted past him, his shoulder colliding with Jean’s, bag still in hand, and went to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. Jean cringed at the sound before squatting down slowly to pick up the jewelry. As he cradled it in his palm, he breathed out slowly. 

“He’ll be okay.” Reiner said softly, still busying himself with the eggs. “It’s the withdrawal talking. Just leave him be for a minute.” 

“I need to talk to him…” Jean mumbled, before turning back around and heading to the bedroom. He didn’t bother to knock, opening the door surely, before immediately dropping the ring he had been clutching in his fist. 

The room was empty. The fucking windows apparently could open. And they stood open, wind blowing into the empty room. 

“Fuck!” Jean shouted, before sprinting back out of the room and to the front door. “Guys!” He shouted, as he ran, flinging open the front door and running into the light rain just in time to watch as Marco’s Bronco skidded off.

“Shit! Marco!!” He yelled as he attempted to dart through the mud and drizzle, but the truck was already halfway down the path and out of sight.

::

He could hear Jean shouting his name, but he couldn’t stop his body from pressing harder onto the gas pedal, tires digging deep into the mud and surging the truck forward. His grip on the steering wheel bleached his knuckles white as the Bronco bumped and bumbled along the barely present path. It was so covered with water, debris, and shielded by fog that Marco could barely see the boundaries of it at all, as if the forest was trying to claim the path back.

Marco clenched his teeth tightly as he plowed forward, letting out a frantic, desperate shout as he shook the steering wheel. He could feel the tears beginning to build up in his eyes, hot prickles at his eyelashes that threatened to spill over as he stared out of the foggy windshield. 

“It's okay, it's okay, it's okay..." He chanted to himself, before shaking his head. "God what am I doing?!” He shouted out loud, clutching the steering wheel more tightly, feeling as if he could have ripped it straight off the column if he tried. He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, what he planned to do, but he had to get out of there. He could feel the weight of this place fucking choking him. He pushed the car harder, feeling as each bump and dip got more and more dramatic, until finally, as he plowed over top a fallen tree limb, he felt the tires run and stick, the car coming to a fast halt, knocking his head forward onto the steering wheel. 

Marco immediately released his foot off the gas, leaning his head up and rubbing at the tender spot where it had hit. He craned his neck back, his eyes clenched shut, trying to stop the throbbing ache that had built up again in his head. With a sigh, he opened his eyes and scooted forward a bit in his seat and tried to apply some pressure to the gas pedal. The Bronco didn’t move, the tires skidding uselessly in the thick, wet mud beneath them. He stopped and threw the truck into park before fumbling with the door and tumbling out of the car into the muck. 

Bracing himself against the side of the car, he eyed the back tires. They were stuck deep, and Marco could hardly pull his own sunken feet out of the mud, let alone figure out how the hell to get the Bronco unstuck. He sighed and grabbed a handful of his hair. 

“Fuck!” He shouted loudly. “Fuck!!!” Screaming out into the emptiness of the forest, breathing heavily, he stared down the paths. One led back to the cabin, the other led forward into the water, brush, and debris from the creek for god only knew how far. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows and forehead against the side of the vehicle, kicking roughly against the tire, before plodding back to the driver’s side door and leaning in to remove the keys from the ignition. 

_Marco!_ a voice whispered out suddenly, and Marco spun around frantically, barely catching himself as his feet threatened to get caught in the mud. It had sounded as if it had been right beside his ear, like something had slithered up beside him and whispered it to him. He panted as he looked around, eyes scanning over the woods around him desperately but finding nothing. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his hand clutching at his pounding chest, before glancing back down the path that would lead him back to the cabin. He didn’t have much of a choice at this point. He turned back towards the car, leaning in again to grab the keys, but as soon as he did, a large, black figure was looming at the passenger side window opposite him, staring at him. 

Marco screamed, fumbling backwards, the keys toppling from his grip as he stumbled back down into the mud. He didn’t wait a single second before his legs were clambering up underneath him and trying to press him up and away, back down the path towards the cabin. He didn’t dare glance behind him, instead trying to focus on simply getting his feet to move through the sludge. His jeans were coated in the muck, and he could feel his shoes threatening to pull off with each distressed step he took, but he plodded forward and forward, along what he _hoped_ was the path back, through the brush and debris that had built up in front of him. 

_Maaaarcoooo_ , he heard it sing-song from somewhere behind him. He let out a panicked sob, as he stumbled along, trying his best to just keep moving. He didn’t make it far though, as his feet tangled up in the large, thorny vines and limbs of the brush. He toppled, landing on his knee in the mud and limbs. Marco tried to dislodge it and free himself, shaking his leg as best he could to loosen the mud’s grip on him, as he craned his head quickly to glance behind him. There was nothing there, but he continued to pull and struggle. He could feel bile building up in his throat, a metallic, awful taste in his mouth as his terror grew. Just as he heard the suction of the muck give way, he felt something thin and wiry wrap around his leg and tug him down again. He landed on his stomach, arms barely breaking his fall, before he flipped over to his back to grapple at his leg desperately. 

The pain was unbelievable. The thorny brush had wound its way around his calf, thorns piercing through his jeans and driving sharply into his flesh. The entirety of the vine felt like hot iron burning against his skin. Marco’s hands shook as he strained against the coiling limbs, until a second one suddenly reached out and snagged his right hand and yanked it back and away from his already bound leg. He let out a broken scream as the fire-hot thorns dug deeply into the exposed flesh of his wrist, sending blood coursing down his forearm. He sobbed out loudly, left arm coming up to try and pry it off his wrist, crying out as the branches wound around him more tightly, slicing his skin as they curled. 

Before he could think, yet another vine had come to wrap around his other leg, winding its way up his calf and around his thigh tightly, as yet another looped around his neck and yanked him upwards with a sudden jolt. Marco choked and strained against the vine as it dragged him up, trying as best he could to fight with the one free arm he had. He sputtered out, barely able to catch his breath as the vine around his neck hoisted him up to his feet. Once it had him upright, it quickly unwound from around his neck and latched onto his arm instead. He coughed hard, trying as best he could to let the air get back into his lungs. His head hung forward as he gasped and coughed, tasting the all-too-distinct taste of blood in his mouth. 

He flung his head back up, and tried to scream, but the sound died in his throat at the sight in front of him. The grotesque figure of a man who looked just like him, thin and bony, skin ashen but splotched with black stood in front of him. It was freckled, just like Marco, hair just like Marco, but its right arm was missing, as well as large portion of its right cheek. Where its right eye should have been was nothing but a black and red, empty, gaping socket. He felt sick. He strained hard against the limbs that held him tight, screaming out as hard as he possibly could into the forest, screaming out the only name his brain could even think to cry for. 

“Jean!!! Help me!” 

The mutilated figure merely smiled with its half-mouth, the flesh on the other side of its face tearing and ripping more, as blood dripped down its cheek and neck. Marco could only watch with wide, panicked eyes as a long, black, thorny vine began to spill from the bloody shoulder where this thing’s right arm should have been. It reached the ground and began to coil up along his leg, like the other branches that held his limbs forcefully. It snaked its way up, around his thigh, around his hips, roughly brushing along his midsection and chest, leaving lacerations in its wake, until it approached his neck. Marco snapped his mouth shut, but it was no use. The thing wound its way around his throat, thorns burrowing into the tender flesh, as it pressed against his lips. He felt the skin of his lips tear as it forced itself into his mouth. 

Marco felt his jaw snapping, opening further than he thought physically possible, as this thing shoved its way into his mouth. The thorns dragged across his tongue as it snaked its way further back, sliding harshly down his throat. He felt his eyes well up, his stomach tightening as his body began to reject it, felt the seizing wrack his body, as he gagged and choked. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fucking breathe. 

Tears streamed down his face as he convulsed in the grip of the branches. The thing forced its way all the way down his throat, until he felt a burn erupt suddenly in his chest and stomach, like every organ had been set afire. His mouth free now, he clenched his eyes shut, still trying to pull his arms and legs free, and screamed desperately. The fucking pain, the fucking burn, the fucking _agony_ of it. He screamed until he was sure no sound was coming out anymore, feeling as his insides seared and burned, ready to explode from his body. The thing in front of him kept smiling its grotesque, mutilated smile, until finally, Marco’s eyes began to droop, head dropping forward limply as he lost consciousness.

::

“It’s his truck!” Jean exclaimed, running forward through the mud as he approached the empty vehicle. He glanced around frantically, looking for any sign of Marco, before he shouted out his name. He looked into the open door of driver’s side and found nothing, eyes desperately scanning the seats and the ground for any sign, any sign at all.

“Found his keys!” Armin shouted from a few feet over, digging his hand into the mud to pull them out. 

“Marco!!!” Jean shouted again, his voice going hoarse as he did so, eyes scanning the forest all around him. His gaze darted back to the ground, looking at the mud, trying to make some sense. There were tons of prints and indentations, but nothing that gave him any true indication of which direction he might have gone. 

“Guys, there are some shoe prints over here.” Bert called out, beckoning Reiner to his side. “They go off the path, but it’s gotta be him.” 

Jean quickly jogged over, as did Armin, as they focused on the sporadic prints. Some were clear shoe indentations, whereas others were long strokes, as if something had been dragged. Jean surged ahead of Bert and Reiner, following the trail as best he could for a few more strides until he saw him. 

Curled up on his side in the brush and mud, eyes shut, face slack, was Marco. 

“Marco!” Jean shouted out as he tumbled through the mud down to his friend. He dropped to his knees at Marco’s side, his hands coming to Marco’s face, patting it lightly. Marco’s shirt and pants were torn and muddy, with hints of red splotched all along his clothes and skin. 

“Oh god.” Reiner said from behind him. 

Jean got his hands underneath Marco’s head and neck and cradled him close to his lap, fingers stroking through his hair softly. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until a small tear landed on Marco’s muddy cheek. 

“Get him up, we need to get him back.” Reiner said to Jean, but Jean didn’t budge or reply, his eyes remained trained on Marco, fingers still shakily threading through his hair. 

“Jean, get him up.” 

When Jean still didn’t reply, Reiner trudged up behind him and wrapped his arms around Jean’s torso and tried to pull him back and away from Marco. As soon as he did, Jean was struggling, kicking and wriggling, his body fighting against Reiner’s firm grip around him as the stronger man tugged him away from Marco. 

“Armin, Bert, is he breathing?” Reiner asked, still holding onto a fighting Jean.

Armin nodded frantically, his fingers fumbling to press against Marco’s neck. 

“Got a pulse too. He’s just out cold.” Armin said with a sigh of relief. 

“Okay, get him up! We need to go. I’ve got a shit ton of first aid in the car. Let’s go.” 

With that, Reiner began to haul Jean back down the path, the smaller man still fighting against his grip, legs kicking out and trying to gain purchase against the ground, as Armin and Bert began to gather up Marco’s unconscious form.

::

Reiner emerged from Marco’s bedroom slowly, leaving the door ajar behind him. Jean sat on the floor, elbows resting on his crossed legs, chewing absently at his nails, his gaze locked on the floor. The boards creaked beneath Reiner’s steps as he moved forward, plopping heavily onto the couch beside his boyfriend, lacing their hands together slowly.

“So?” Bert asked quietly. 

“He’ll be fine. Cuts aren’t that deep. Nothing needs stiches. I got him cleaned up, disinfected everything. He’ll be okay.” 

“Did he say anything?” Armin probed, a small hint of uneasiness lacing his voice. 

“He thinks something attacked him in the woods.” 

“What, like an animal?” 

“No, he said he doesn’t know what it was. Can’t seem give me any details, either... Keeps talking about the vines.” 

Reiner rubbed a hand over his forehead, scrunching his brow as his eyes closed. 

“So… what do you think, then?” 

“Honestly?” Reiner started, Armin nodding quickly to him in return. “I think his truck got stuck, probably saw an animal and he got panicked, made a run for it, and fell into a thorn bush. He had thorns stuck all in his jeans and shirt, and some stuck in his arms and neck.” 

At that, Jean whipped his head to the side to stare at Reiner. 

“And?” 

“And nothing. I don’t think something attacked him.” 

“But… he’s fucking petrified right now. Something scared the shit out of him…” 

“Right. And he’s also going through a huge heroine withdrawal right now. He’s paranoid, anxious, in pain, sick, and likely hallucinating.” Reiner retorted firmly.

Jean dropped his head between his hands and ruffled his hair with a sigh.

“This isn’t the craziest thing I’ve seen somebody do during withdrawal, believe it or not. It will pass. I promise.” 

Jean shook his head and started to push himself up off the rug to stand, but his hand landed atop something lumpy underneath it. He furrowed his brow and looked up at Reiner before peeling the rug back tentatively. 

“It’s just the cellar, man.” Reiner said to Jean, nodding his head towards the golden latch. 

“God, pleeease tell me there’s wine in there…” Bertholdt groaned, leaning his head back against the couch. “I could drink for a fuckin' week…” 

“Alas, no.” 

“You're lettin' me down here, baby.” 

Jean shook his head, and stood, not giving enough of a shit to fix the rug before he strode across the room towards the bedroom. 

“Gimme a sec, yeah?” He mumbled towards the others, who waved him off, as he slid into the bedroom and closed the door behind him.

The lights were out in the bedroom, but the daylight filtering in through the window illuminated some of it. Jean’s brow furrowed when he didn’t find Marco on his bed. He strode quickly to the lamp on the table between the beds. The room brightened and Jean startled. Marco was sitting on Jean’s bed, his eyes wide and fixated on the closed door of the bathroom, knees clutched to his chest. 

“Marco?” 

Marco’s eyes snapped to him. 

“Jean….” He whispered curtly, extending his arm out to Jean. 

“What is it?” Jean asked, taking Marco’s hand in his own and lowering himself to sit on the bed in front of him. 

Marco squeezed his hand tightly and pulled him forward. 

“W-we have to g-get out of h-here…” 

“Why? Marco, we couldn’t even if we wanted to… The water level is too high, and the mud is way too thick…” Jean mumbled, his free hand coming to brush Marco’s cheek softly. Marco trembled into his touch.

“S-s-something… really bad… is here. I can f-feel it… feel it… _inside_ me… I-I want t-to go.” 

Jean pried his hand from Marco’s death-grip, bringing both hands to Marco’s face now. He clutched his face between his palms and turned Marco’s gaze to look him in the eyes. 

“Listen to me. You’re going to make it through this, okay? Your body is fucking with you, your brain is fucking with you, because you- you’re denying it the drugs it thinks it needs, okay?” 

Marco shook his head ‘no’ frantically in Jean’s grip. Jean gripped him tighter and stilled him. 

“Do you hear me? You’re gunna be okay. You’re gunna fight. You’re gunna fight for yourself, you’re gunna fight for me. Okay? After this is over, you and I are gunna start over, I promise. But you have to make it through this, alright? Do you understand?” 

Marco’s eyes trembled as he stared at Jean’s, sweat still beading up coldly on his forehead, but he nodded slowly in Jean’s hands and leaned forward into his arms, his forehead coming to rest against Jean’s chest. Jean could only hold him tightly as he quivered. He pressed his face into Jean’s chest, clenching his eyes as tight as he could, trying like hell to ignore the hot, burning pain that seared within his chest.


	5. The Setting Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Armin, Reiner, Jean, and Bertholdt discuss Marco and the book, and Marco can't take the feeling inside his body anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter featuring some graphic imagery. Pretty much every chapter from here on out will have graphic depictions of violence in them, so just be aware.

Jean sat on the steps of the porch, the frigid air encasing him as he huffed desperately on his cigarette. He stared out at the woods that surrounded him. The rain had finally stopped, and the last bits of sunlight of the day were creeping through the branches and the fog. It was actually kind of beautiful, he thought to himself as he took another slow drag from the Parliament, reveling in the small sense of relief he felt as the nicotine began to flood his system. He heard the door of the cabin creak behind him, but he didn’t bother to turn around. With a small huff, Reiner lowered himself down to the steps to sit beside Jean. They sat in silence for a few moments until Reiner leaned over and grabbed Jean’s cigarette, taking a short drag for himself. 

Jean sighed. 

“I don’t really know what I was expecting when I left Trost to come out here…” He whispered softly. “But it wasn’t this. I didn’t know it could get this bad.” 

“Yeah. Well, withdrawal is a bitch…” 

“He’s covered with scratches and bruises…” 

“Probably from the woods… Fell into a thorn brush, tripped and scuffed himself up. Hell, he could have done it on purpose, hoping we’d take him out of here….” 

Jean turned his head to glare at him. 

“Marco wouldn’t do that. How could you even think that? He-he’s never been like that.” 

“Yeah, so? This isn’t the Marco you’re used to seeing, dude.” Reiner cleared his throat, taking another drag from Jean’s cigarette before passing it back. He spoke with the smoke still in his lungs, “One time, at the clinic…” he exhaled slowly, “One time, this guy. He was one of our hardest patients. He was freaking nutty, kind of a religious kook. The guy couldn’t stay clean, always claimed that Satan was pushing the drugs into his body. He’d come in, go cold turkey, suffer through the withdrawal, claim it was a miracle when he made it through, leave, and come back again strung out worse than before. One time, in the middle of one of his withdrawal sessions, he just started screaming and flinging himself against a wall, he clawed at his arms, his face and his eyes, before we could get in to restrain him. Permanently damaged his left eye.” 

Jean looked down and away sharply. Reiner continued, his voice gentle now.

“My point is, drugs make people go crazy sometimes, Jean. Marco isn’t that bad. But if he gets worse, we’ll handle it, okay?” 

Jean didn’t know what to say, so he just nodded, taking another drag from the dwindling cigarette and keeping his eyes trained on the woods ahead of him. The sun was almost set now, and the cold was creeping in. 

“You still love him, don’t you?” 

Jean coughed at the question, the smoke choking its way out of his lungs as he turned to look at Reiner. 

“It’s okay, you know? To still love him.” 

Jean licked his lips as Reiner gave a small shrug. 

“I mean, yeah, he fucked up, and yeah, you fucked up. But it’s okay to still love him; he certainly never stopped loving you.” 

Of course Jean still loved Marco. He wanted to shout it at Reiner, but the look on Reiner’s face stopped him before the sound could pass his teeth. Reiner’s face was soft and understanding, a small smile gracing his lips as he stared at Jean. 

“You don’t have to say it,” the blonde said, his hand resting on Jean’s shoulder and giving it a supportive squeeze. 

The door creaked open again, and Armin and Bert came outside to join the two of them. Bert stood behind Reiner, running a gentle hand through Reiner’s short hair, as Armin leant against the railing of the porch. 

“Marco’s finally getting some sleep.” Armin said matter-of-factly, his eyes staring out at the setting sun. “Damn, that’s gorgeous. Thought we’d never see the sun out here, all that fog.” 

Jean brought his cigarette up to his lips again, but as he puffed it, he realized it had already gone out, burned up to the filter. He tossed it away and rested his chin atop his knees. 

“Did we figure out what we’re doing with the book?” Jean asked tiredly. 

“I don’t know what to do with it, but we can’t just throw it out.” Armin said. 

“Oh, and why the fuck not?” Bert asked incredulously, eyes landing on Armin harshly. 

“Look, I’ve been flipping through it and –“, Armin started, but Bert had already cut him off. 

“I thought you said you were gunna leave it alone?” 

“Look man, sue me, okay? One finds something like that shoved in the wall surrounded by dead animals, one kinda wants to know exactly what’s in it. I didn’t do any chants or anything, so calm down. But some of the stuff in it… It’s really messed up.” 

“Messed up how?” Jean asked tentatively. 

“Bodily mutilation… Human sacrifice… Possession… Demonology kind of stuff. It looks like…. I don’t- I don’t think this is a book we should just… throw away.” Armin paused for a moment, glancing down at the floor, debating his next words carefully. “Have you guys ever heard of The Necronomicon?” 

“God, fuck, don’t say it.” Bert said exasperatedly, threading his fingers through his hair. 

“That H.P. Lovecraft shit? You can’t be serious, Armin.” Reiner said with a small scoff, turning his head back to stare at the woods. 

“One of my grad school requirements was an author-specific course, so I picked Lovecraft. The Necronomicon he always referred to was this mysterious book that apparently had all sorts of information and incantations on the Old Gods. Lovecraft always asserted that the book was entirely a fictional creation-“ 

“Because it _is_ fictional.” Reiner deadpanned. 

“Right, _yes_ , it is, just let me finish. I remember this girl in my class… I think her name was Hanji… She was always bringing up this other book, different than the Lovecraftian Necronomicon. She called it The Necronomicon Ex-Mortis. She was pretty batty, but she swore up and down that the thing was real… Professor Smith… he-he never let her talk much about it. I stopped her one day, after class, just to ask. Cause I was curious.” Armin pretended he didn’t see the way Bertholdt rolled his eyes at him. “She looked a little… I dunno, deranged? But she told me that it was an ancient text used for demonic funerary practices – things like demonic resurrection, human possession. Claimed it was bound in human flesh and written in human blood – “ 

Reiner cut him off again, his voice tired and annoyed. 

“So, wait, are you seriously trying to imply that you think that book is this Ex-Mortis crap?” 

“No.” Armin said, his voice stern and focused. “But I _do_ think that this book is someone’s attempt at creating an Ex-Mortis text.” 

“God fucking damnit, Armin…” Bertholdt whispered, dragging his hands along his face.

“Regardless of Bert’s superstitions,” Armin said looking at Reiner and Jean, “I’m not worried about the book. But I don’t wanna just toss it out, who knows who might find it after we ditch it… Not to sound cliché, but I really don’t want some poor kids happening upon this thing and it screwing them up for life.”

::

Marco lay in his bed, the covers resting haphazardly over his hips as he squirmed, body quivering and sweating, panting in his sleep, his head tossing. Even in sleep, his brain was full to bursting. He awoke harshly with a sharp inhale of breath as he heard the sound of voices outside his window. It sounded like Armin and Bert talking, and Marco could vaguely hear the word “book” being thrown around. His body twitched suddenly, a hard jolt jarring him as he felt his stomach start to burn again. He rolled onto his side and groaned loudly, his vision starting to blur and redden. Marco couldn’t stop the convulsions, the pain was overwhelming.

He felt the burning coil in his stomach, could almost smell the burning flesh, before it spread in an instant, crawling and slithering underneath his skin through his extremities. He cried out, the sound barely passing his lips as he tumbled out of bed, landing on the floor with a thud. Marco fumbled to his feet, clutching his stomach and flinging the bedroom door open. 

Dragging his feet with every step, he clambered through the living room and into the kitchen, his eyes landing hard on the fleshy book that still rested on the table. He cried out, doubling over in pain, clutching at his stomach as it surged with burning agony as he neared the book. The pain brought him down, collapsing to his knees, as he strained against the pain. His skin felt like it might crawl away from his muscles, his muscles threatening to tear away from his bones and leave him a bloody, rotting mess. He could feel the vines, could fucking _feel_ them under his skin, their thorns digging in and dragging across the sinews of his muscle and bones. His limbs trembled almost violently as he crawled on all fours towards the kitchen counter. Flinging his hand up to the counter, he grabbed the pocket knife that lay abandoned on it with fumbling, desperate fingers. 

The first cut was the worst. The blade was too dull, and the amount of force he had to apply to get it to penetrate his skin made him cry out loudly. He dug it as deep as he could, his fingers groping within the open wound, feeling for the thorny branch that was snaking its way beneath his skin. But it wouldn’t stay still. It was fucking everywhere. In his legs, his arms, his hands, his feet, his head. His hands couldn’t work fast enough, fingers slick with blood, cutting and carving desperately as he tried to stay ahead of the thing’s movements underneath his flesh. 

His body convulsed, neck snapping as he twitched, fingers cracking, gripping the knife so tightly. 

He screamed.

::

Jean heard the cry first, his head snapping around at the first sound of it. He was already scrambling to his feet, nearly tripping as he tried to desperately rush in through the front door. The others barreled in behind him, through the living room to the kitchen.

There was blood everywhere. Marco was there on his knees, a knife in his hand and screaming like death itself was taking ahold of him. Reiner wasted no time grabbing ahold of Marco and getting him against the ground as he attempted to pry the knife from his iron grip. Marco shrieked and struggled beneath him, legs kicking, arms struggling, blood splattering from his wounds. Deep, gurgling noises spilled from his mouth, sounds that hardly sounded human. It felt like his cries shook the very foundation of the cabin. 

“Help me!” Reiner shouted, doing his best to hold Marco, knocking the knife away across the floor. Jean was already on his knees, grabbing one of Marco’s shoulders and holding as hard as he physically could. Marco’s blood was everywhere, painting his skin and clothes like war paint. Marco struggled for another minute before stopping abruptly, his body going limp in their arms. They laid him back on the floor gently, Reiner quickly trying to inspect some of the gashes. 

“God… God, man, some these cuts are bad. Fuck.” Reiner said, running a bloody hand through his hair absentmindedly, not caring about the way it streaked across his blonde hair. He glanced up, catching his boyfriend’s terrified eyes. Bert looked ready to collapse. He stumbled back away from them, his back thudding against the wall as he stared and sunk down to the floor. 

“Jean, help me get him to the living room. Armin, go grab the big red bag out of my bedroom and bring it here.” 

Armin was already halfway down the hall, as Reiner and Jean scooped Marco up and dragged his limp body to the couch. They reclined him on it lengthwise, Jean fumbling up to his feet to grab a couple of hand towels from the kitchen. He passed one to Reiner and held onto one, trying like hell to press against some of the gashes along Marco’s body to stop the bleeding. Armin came back, towing a large, red duffel bag, and plopped it on the floor beside Reiner. 

“Hold the towels on him, Jean. I’ve got sutures in here somewhere and some alcohol and saline.” 

Reiner was rooting around in the bag, tossing out a small hemostat wrapped in sealed plastic, several small packets that read **“4-0 Vicryl”** on the labels, as well as grabbing a couple different plastic bottles and another towel. 

“How’s the bleeding?” He asked briskly, gathering up the items beside the couch. Jean lifted the edge of one of the towels. 

“I think some of them are stopping or slowing, at least…” 

“Good.” Reiner mumbled, pouring one of the bottles out onto the small towel in his hand. “Here, start wiping off the larger gashes with this, it’s just alcohol.” Jean nodded, replacing the towel in his hand with the drenched one and rubbing it along Marco’s arms and legs and hip, as Reiner busied himself with tearing open one of the packets. “These should help for the deeper ones… The biggest ones look like they’re on his legs, yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

Reiner grabbed the hemostat in one hand, and plucked one of the small curved suture needles from the opened 4-0 Vicryl packet and slid in beside Jean. 

“Which one looks deepest?” 

Jean pointed silently to the gash across Marco’s right thigh, before pushing up the fabric of his boxers to show the angry 3-inch long gash in full. Without another word, Reiner started suturing the wound. Blood dripped from the mangled flesh as the suture needle punctured through. Jean couldn’t watch, turning his eyes away quickly. His gaze landed on Bert, the poor boy still leaning back against the wall and staring at them blankly. 

“We need to take him out of here…” Bert mumbled. 

“We _can’t_. If Marco’s Bronco couldn’t make it through that water and mud, what makes you think any of our cars could?” Armin asked, gesturing quickly towards Jean. “Even Jean’s jeep couldn’t make it past that creek, I’m betting.” 

Bert shook his head. 

“We should have just left. We should have left when Marco wanted to…”

Armin didn’t reply. He bent his knees, slowly sliding down into a squatting position, and threading his hands through his long hair, running through the locks, mumbling quietly to himself and shaking his head. He closed his eyes, trying just to think. 

His head snapped up quickly.

“Oh god.” Armin muttered out, standing up fully and striding rapidly towards the kitchen table. Bert’s eyes followed him as he pushed his way up the wall to try and stand and stumble after him. Armin stood hunched over the kitchen table, fingers flipping through the thick pages of the book wildly. Marco’s earlier struggle seemed to have shaken blood up as far as the tabletop, little flecks of red scattered haphazardly over it and across the book. Armin paid it no mind, his fingers dragging in the random red droplets as he scanned the pages, shaking his head and muttering to himself. 

“I saw this, I saw this somewhere…” He mumbled, still flipping the pages until he stopped and stood up straight, his eyes trained on a crude black and red drawing of a emaciated figure, covered in lacerations, blood dripping down over its body, knife in its bony hand held against its own flesh. 

Bertholdt was behind Armin instantly, staring at the drawing over Armin’s shoulder. His hand covered his mouth, a small, muffled whimper slipping past his lips, head shaking absently back and forth. His brow was wrinkled and worried, and a tear slipped past his cheek. 

“I told you…I told you to leave it alone…” Bert whispered, another tear sliding down his other cheek, as he slammed the book shut. Armin stepped away from the table, still shaking his head. 

“It’s not fucking possible…” the blond muttered, stumbling backwards to sink into the kitchen chair. 

“I said we shouldn’t fuck with it…”

::

Jean didn’t want to count how many torn open suture packets were lying on the floor, but he was sure there were at least 15. Reiner had gotten the majority of the gashes sewn up haphazardly. A few of the smaller cuts he had left untouched, merely cleaning them and applying pressure to keep the bleeding to a minimum. Now, the two of them sat on the floor, their backs against the couch where Marco was still lying unconscious and bloody. The towels had only been able to wipe off so much of the staining red liquid.

Jean hung his head between his bent knees, arms folded over his head, trying to ignore the deep, metallic scent of blood that was threatening to overpower his senses. 

“We have to get Marco out of here…” he mumbled, feeling his eyes begin to well up, a tear slipping past his eyelashes and down his nose.

“We will. The rain’s stopped already. The water level should go down and the ground should dry up a bit by tomorrow morning, assuming the rain doesn’t start up again. We’ll get him out and take him to a hospital.” 

Jean tried to ignore the tremulous quake in Reiner’s voice. 

“What do we do till then?” 

Reiner said nothing. 

“Reiner?” 

“I don’t know.”

And with that, Reiner pushed himself up off the ground and headed towards the kitchen, leaving Jean alone on the floor, his back against the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goodness, Marco has had a really hard time lately... 
> 
> Feedback greatly welcomed and appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all.


	6. The Dead of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things can only go from bad to worse, and "calm" doesn't mean "over".

Jean heard the sink begin to run and lifted his head up, eyes scanning over the blood that coated his hands and forearms and pants. He felt sick, stomach turning over on itself as he stared at the red along his skin. He turned his head back to look at Marco. The other man was still, his face relaxed, and breathing evenly. Jean licked his lips and furrowed his brow… This was probably the most relaxed he’d seen Marco look since they’d gotten here. He tried not to think about how much that thought broke his heart. He turned his head away and wiped roughly at the tears on his cheeks, trying to ignore the way some of the red from his hands smeared across his cheek, and stood, walking towards the kitchen to join the others. 

He shoved in close next to Reiner at the sink, dunking his own hands beneath the running water, trying – gently at first, then rougher and rougher – to scrub off the red, flaking blood that was caked to his skin. Reiner moved away, not bothering to dry his hands, since there wasn't a towel left that wasn't soaked with blood, and plopped into one of the kitchen chairs beside Bert. He draped a wet hand loosely over his boyfriend’s, who laced their fingers together and squeezed as if his life depended on it, his dark eyes never leaving the book that sat in the middle of the table. 

Armin stood slowly, pushing his chair out and pacing away from the table, a hand on the back of his neck. Jean didn’t even ask before collapsing down into Armin’s freshly vacated seat. Bert leaned forward, his hand still death-gripping Reiner’s as he rested his forehead down against the tabletop. 

“We never should have touched this fucking thing…” Bert mumbled listlessly into the table. Jean turned to look at him. 

“You can’t think that this is cause of the book?” He asked. 

“Marco didn’t act like this last time… Marco wasn’t like this in Jinae!” Was all Bert said in response, his head not lifting up from the table. 

Armin shook his head, hand still running roughly across the back of his neck.

“No. No, it’s not possible…” He kept saying as he paced. 

“Maybe we could call someone…” Jean tried weakly. 

“Yeah, we could," Reiner started, voice flat and unwavering, "if we had a phone that actually had signal out here.” 

“Wh-what about 911?” Armin blurted out. “Aren’t all cellphones supposed to be able to call 911 regardless of if they have service or not?” 

“No,” Reiner replied, shaking his head. “That’s only for _deactivated_ phones, phones without active cellular plans. If you have a phone without a cell plan that’s within range of a tower, then you can call 911. But phones without _any_ signal – out of range of a tower, without a repeater or a satellite signal – like all of ours – can’t call jack shit. If there’s no tower, the call’s not going anywhere.” 

“Fuck…” Jean gritted out, leaning forward against the tables on his elbows. 

A small, steady creaking in the floorboards caught all of their attention. Bert and Jean snapped their heads up, and Armin stopped pacing, turning around to see Marco standing in the middle of the room. His gaze was fixated on the floor, his sweat-drenched hair hanging over his eyes, his arms hanging limply by his sides. 

“Marco?” Armin whispered softly. 

Marco’s gaze shifted upwards slowly, his neck cricking with a sickening crack as he twitched and lifted his head. His lips curled into a small smiling snarl.

“I’m feeling…much better now…” He growled out in an angry, raspy voice that was in no way his own. Jean stood quickly at the voice, his chair clattering to the ground behind him, watching as Marco’s neck snapped again. 

In a blur, Marco screeched out and lunged forward, tackling Armin to the ground with a loud thud and pinning the smaller man down against the floorboards. Armin screamed as Marco dove onto him, trying desperately to push at the oppressive weight on top of him as Marco’s face dove down and reached his neck, sinking his teeth deeply into the flesh of the blonde’s throat. His teeth dug into him impossibly quickly, sinking through the flesh, through the muscle and sinew and tendons, gripping the poor boy like a vice and not letting up.

Bert and Reiner were already at him, trying to grab his arms and pry him off, as Jean tried desperately to haul Armin out from underneath him. The flesh of Armin’s throat stayed locked between Marco’s teeth as they yanked him off, the skin and muscle ripping as Marco was tugged off and to the floor. Armin’s screams faded almost immediately into sputtering hacks as Jean frantically tried to hold his fingers against the blood that was gushing from Armin’s neck. Jean let out a desperate cry, drowned out by the inhuman howls coming from Marco’s mouth as Reiner and Bertholdt dragged him by the arms, legs kicking and body thrashing, backwards to the living room. Jean could just vaguely hear Reiner shout out “CELLAR!” as they fought against the flailing man in their grasp. 

Bert let go for just an instant to unlatch the cellar door and fling it open, before he was back at Reiner’s side, wrangling the thrashing, yowling Marco and shoving him down into basement, shutting the hatch quickly with a slam. Bert fumbled with the latch as he listened to Marco’s deep, guttural cries, before finally getting the bolt through the latch and locking it, kicking backwards, away from the cellar, and up to his feet. 

Reiner turned his attention to Armin immediately, scooping the small blonde up into his arms and rushing back into the bedroom, Bert and Jean on his heels. Reiner laid him down on the bed, grabbing a shirt off the floor and shoving it firmly against Armin’s neck. Jean tried not to notice the way Reiner’s hands shook as they pressed against Armin’s throat, tried his best not to notice how ashen and pale Armin had become in the last minute alone. Instead, he shook his head and grabbed another shirt off the ground and pressed it over the hand Reiner already had against the wound. Reiner said nothing, but took the extra fabric in his grip and tried his best to focus on applying as much pressure as he could, telling Jean to do the same. 

_Armin is bleeding out_ , Jean thought to himself. The blood was probably gushing out through a puncture in is jugular, draining the man until there would be nothing left. A thick mixture of blood and saliva beginning to dribble out of the corner of Armin’s mouth and trailed down his cheek as the blonde stared emptily up at the ceiling. Reiner turned his head, his eyes scanning the room in a desperate search for his red bag. 

“Fuck!” Reiner shouted, before turning his body slightly, seeing Bert standing in the open doorway of the bedroom. 

Bertholdt’s eyes were wide and he was shaking, mumbling over and over to himself. _“This isn’t withdrawal…”_

Reiner spoke slowly and deliberately in his boyfriend’s direction. 

“Bertl. Baby. Look at me. I left the bag with the sutures in the living room. Go get it.” 

But Bert didn’t budge from the doorway. Body frozen, his eyes stayed - wild and terrified - fixated on Armin’s sputtering form on the bed. 

“Babe, now!” Reiner shouted again, snapping Bert out of his gaze. The taller man shook his head, mumbled “right, yeah” before stumbling backwards out the door of the bedroom and down the hallway. 

Jean’s eyes focused on Reiner’s determined, but wide-eyed face. 

“Can you fix this?” Jean whispered, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. 

Reiner just panted a few times, before rocking his shoulders, trying to keep as much pressure as possible on his friend’s mutilated throat. 

“I’m… I’m not a fuckin’ doctor… But I can try…” Reiner licked his lips, his body beginning to quiver.

::

Bertholdt trudged down the hallway as quickly as his legs would allow him too. He moved towards the living room, his sneakers threatening to slip in the blood that had pooled from the kitchen. Now that the sun had set, the whole living room was dark. Frenetically, his eyes strained to scan the poorly lit room, before he scrambled to the lamp by the couch, flicking it on quickly. He tried not to gag at the sight of the blood that stained deeply into the couch, or the bloody trail that Marco had left as he and Reiner had dragged the rabid man towards the cellar.

His eyes looked around the floor, spotting the red bag full of supplies beside the couch. He fumbled over to it and snatched it up, grabbing a couple of packets that had fallen onto the floor and shoving them in as he began to jog back through the living room. 

As he passed the kitchen, a loud, commanding **SLAM** from the living room stopped him dead in his tracks. He paused and turned his head slowly, trying to stop his shaking and uneasy breaths as his eyes focused back on the empty living room behind him. Clutching the bag to his chest, he tried to take a deep breath, ready to turn and continue back to the bedroom. Until Marco’s voice – weak, broken, and utterly _terrified_ sounding – broke the silence. 

“Bertholdt??" Marco's voice cried desperately. "…Bertl, is-is that you?” 

Bertholdt didn’t reply, turning his body slowly and taking a couple careful steps towards the living room, his eyes never leaving the latched door of the cellar. 

“Bert… Oh god…” Marco sobbed out. “Wh-why am I down here?” 

Bertholdt could hear the sheer confusion and agony in Marco’s words, and against his better judgment, he couldn’t help but mumble out a weak reply. 

“I-I’m… I’m sorry, Marco… We… We didn’t know what else to do…” 

He heard Marco let out a pained sob, his voice breaking and cracking a bit as he spoke. 

“Wh-what happened to me? I’m… I’m covered in cuts, oh god… I’m bleeding everywhere… The sutures are ripped… God, it hurts so m-much.” 

Bert breathed heavily, doing his best to calm himself as he set down the bag and moved closer to the cellar door. This was Marco down there… it had to be. That voice, that broken, frightened voice... Poor, anguished Marco… In pain, fucking terrified, confused, and desperate. There was a part of his brain that was screaming at him to walk away right then, but he couldn’t just turn away from. the way Marco pleaded with him. If he had been in Marco’s shoes… Hell, Bert could hardly imagine the dread and panic he would be feeling. Against all of his better judgment, he unlatched the cellar door with tentative, shaking fingers and opened it just a crack to peer in. 

Marco was curled up against the bottom of the stairs, sobbing uncontrollably and shaking. Even in the poor light, he could see Marco running his hands over the myriad of deep lacerations that Reiner had haphazardly sewn up. Oh, god, he had to get that bag back to Reiner. He was about to drop the door down and go to Reiner, when Marco’s dark brown eyes turned up to look at him, the tears still pouring, blood on his trembling hands from the hemorrhaging cuts. 

“I-I can’t… I can’t stop the bleeding, Bert… God, help me… Please. I’m so sc-scared.” 

“We… We will. I promise.” Bert started, “You went crazy. And Armin’s hurt. He’s hurt real fuckin’ bad. I have to go back and help him. But I promise, we’re gunna get out of here, okay?” 

Bert stood, still bent over, his hand on the cracked open cellar door, staring down. Marco broke their gaze suddenly, staring at the floor, his sobs stopping instantaneously. 

“No.” Marco said sternly, his voice suddenly deep, raspy, and grating against Bert’s ears. Bertholdt started at the change. “I kind of like it down here.” Marco’s head jarred to the side quickly, cricking his neck hard, and Bert’s eyes widened. He stumbled back a half-step, about to drop the hatch of the cellar closed, but the door suddenly flung open wide in an instant, wrenching out of his grip violently and knocking him off balance down to the floor. He tumbled backwards and landed hard on his tailbone with a short cry. 

Suddenly, Marco’s bloody hand shot out of the cellar and wrapped around Bertholdt’s ankle tightly, his red eyes peeking over the edge of the floor boards, glaring hard at Bertholdt’s stunned face. 

“You’ll like it too.” He growled out before giving a rough twist to Bert’s ankle, snapping the bones and yanking the taller man down into the cellar. 

The hatched slammed closed behind him as Bert shouted out, struggling against the searing hot grip around his ankle as it pulled him down the first two stairs. His head banged back against the wooden steps, and he felt his head cloud over. With another tug, Marco tossed him down the remaining stairs and into the darkness. 

The last thing Bertholdt remembered before blacking out was the image of Marco, crouched on the stairs above him, glaring down at him with a grotesque, contorted smile on his lips.

::

Reiner had managed to pinch off a portion of the damaged artery in Armin’s neck, but there seemed to be multiple spots of damage and the blood just wouldn’t stop. Jean tried his best to hold the cloth against Armin’s throat to quell the blood that continued to pulse out. Armin’s eyes were bleary and his breathing was short and shallow. With frantic glances, Reiner kept turning to the door.

“God, where the hell is he?” 

He and Jean both startled at the sound of a loud slamming sound, both of them glancing to the door. Jean could have sworn that sounded like the cellar door.

“Jean, go find him and bring me the damn sutures.” 

“Can you hold it without me?” 

“Yes, just go!” 

Without another word, Jean was up off the bed and darting down the hallway. Reiner focused his eyes on Armin’s, trying to command his attention. 

“Just hang on, Armin… You’re stronger than you look, little man, so just hold on… We’re gunna fix you up…” 

Reiner tried not to notice the tear that slipped down his cheek as he spoke. 

Armin’s eyes seemed to brighten a little and he raised his hand tentatively and weakly, his fingers shaking as they lifted off the mattress. 

“Th-th… b-b-book…” Armin gurgled out, drops of blood sputtering a bit from his lips. 

“Shhh…” Reiner shushed him quickly. “Don’t try to talk. Just focus on breathing, okay?” 

“Hav-have to... U-use th-the book...” Armin paused, his eyes growing faint before sputtering again, “to-to kill-to k-kill it.”

“It?” Reiner implored softly, returning Armin's hazy but determined stare with concern and confusion. 

“M-M-Marco…” Armin breathed out, blood dribbling down his ashen cheek.

::

Bertholdt groaned against the concrete floor, his eyes opening slowly. His head was pounding, and he brought a hand up to his forehead, feeling a wetness on his skin. He shoved up to his knees, his eyes scanning blearily around the cellar. It was so dark, his eyes could barely make anything out. As he moved to stand, he cried out at the pain in his ankle, collapsing back down to all fours. He clenched his eyes shut and turned to sit, his hand touching at the ankle gingerly. He hissed at the pain, opening his eyes again.

He looked around, still seeing nothing in the poor lighting, before his eyes landed on Marco still crouched unnaturally on the stairs, his figure just barely illuminated by the light slipping through the cracks of the cellar door above him. Bertholdt froze, eyes staring widely at Marco’s glowing red eyes and freakish, dripping grin. The boy’s skin was a pale, sickly green color, the fresh stitches in many of his cuts yanked out and dripping blood. 

With a slow, determined crawl, Marco moved down the stairs before lunging at Bertholdt, forcefully shoving the taller man onto his back. He slid his body slowly atop Bert’s, glaring down at him, bloody smile beaming down. Bertholdt let out a whimper, lolling his head to the side, still feeling dizzy, as Marco pinned him against the stone floor. He heard Marco hiss and snarl slightly, as he smiled bigger, the blood dripping from his teeth and dripping onto Bertholdt’s temple. 

Bert winced as the droplets splashed against his skin, groaning as he tried to strain against the oppressive weight of Marco on top of him. He tried to bend his leg, but his left one was completely pinned. His right leg had more freedom, but the minute he tried to put pressure on his ankle, he cried out in pain. Marco’s face softened immediately, before contorting a bit to stick his bottom lip out in a sad, mocking pout. 

“Tch, tch…” he hissed. “Poor baby.” 

Bertholdt tried his best to focus just on steadying his uneasy, panting breaths. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he wriggled beneath Marco, freeing his arms and shoving up, sending the other boy toppling off of him just enough to wriggle himself away a bit. He tried to seize the moment, ignoring the searing, biting pain from his broken ankle, and he army crawled his way up the stairs. He was so close to the top when Marco’s hand suddenly wrapped around his injured ankle. Bertholdt let out a scream as Marco tugged harshly on the damaged joint, pulling him roughly down a couple of stairs, tearing the front of his shirt and scuffing his chest as he was dragged down. With an angry snarl, Marco flipped him over to his back, straddling him and pinning him again. 

“You don’t get to leave…” The deep, guttural voice whispered from Marco’s mouth, still grinning insanely down at the man beneath him. Bert groaned out at the sharpness of the wooden steps against his back. Marco let out a low growl, the smile fading from his lips, and stared at him angrily before lowering his head down to Bert’s face. Bert wrenched his head to the side as Marco’s rough tongue extended and dragged hard against his cheek. He could smell the coppery scent of blood seeping from Marco’s mouth and felt his stomach churn. With a quick yank, Bert jerked his arm out from Marco’s grip and strained up, reaching as far as he could, fingers pressing against the hatch of the cellar just enough. He pushed it up a bit, a sliver of light piercing down into the pit, before Marco’s gnarled hand grabbed his wrist like a vice and twisted it back down, slowly bringing the flesh of Bert’s forearm towards his mouth.

“I'm gunna rip out your dirty, little soul, you faggot.” 

Pain ripped through Bertholdt suddenly, unable to control the loud howl of pain he emitted as Marco’s teeth dug deep into the vulnerable meat of his forearm. He struggled hard, feeling the flesh rip and tear in Marco’s bite. He yanked hard, freeing his arm, a piece of it ripping off as he did so. Blood gushed from the open wound as he tried to scramble away. Marco merely smiled a dramatic, bloody smile down at him before tilting his head back and swallowing the piece of Bert’s arm in his mouth.

::

Jean ran into the living room, his eyes scanning the empty room desperately, seeing no sign of Bert except for the bright red bag lying abandoned in the middle of the floor. He would have to come back for Bert, he thought, running forward and snatching the bag up from the ground. He turned to head back down the hallway before he heard a loud, pained cry ring out from the cellar.

His eyes snapped to the door of the cellar, suddenly noticing that the latch was undone. He dropped the bag and scrambled to towards the hatch and flung it open. The light illuminated the stairs, and Jean’s eyes landed on Bert, spread out on the stairs, bloody, and pinned beneath Marco. Bert’s eyes darted up at the sudden light, growing wide when they saw Jean. Jean didn’t waste a moment before reaching in and grabbing Bert by the shoulders, dragging him out from underneath Marco and out of the cellar in a burst of strength he didn’t know he had in him. Marco fumbled to grab ahold of Bertholdt's leg as he was dragged up and out of the hatch, but he didn’t try follow him. Instead, he stayed on the stairs on all fours, his glowing eyes staring up at Jean wildly, his bloody mouth in a twisted grin. 

“Why don’t you come on down so I can suck your cock, pretty boy?” Marco snarled, his head cricking loudly to one side. 

“God, Marco…” Jean mumbled, feeling sickness rise up in his throat. 

“Marco isn’t here you stupid fuck!” the figure on the stairs shouted deafeningly before smiling again, speaking more softly. “Your sweet little boyfriend’s getting raped in _Hell_.” 

With that, Jean shook his head and slammed the cellar door closed and latched it with desperate, fumbling fingers. He turned quickly to Bert, who had crawled away and was curled against the far wall, clutching his bleeding arm to his chest. 

“Are you okay?” 

“G-go to Armin.” He stuttered. “I’m fine, go.” 

“I’ll be right back.” Jean mumbled, feet scrambling beneath him and grabbing the red bag as he ran, darting down the hall as fast as he could. Before he got there, he could hear Reiner shouting frantically.

“Armin? ARMIN!” 

Jean reached the threshold of the bedroom, but stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway. 

Reiner’s hands weren’t on Armin’s throat anymore. Reiner wasn’t even sitting on the bed anymore. Armin lay completely still on the bed, soaked red around his head and neck, his eyes wide and directed up at the ceiling. Reiner was kneeling on the floor, elbows on the mattress, his head in his bloody hands, sobs wracking his frame. 

Jean didn’t have to ask. The red bag slipped from his fingers and Jean dropped down to his knees with a thud, his eyes never leaving Armin’s motionless form. 

“It was too much…” Reiner mumbled, his voice quaking with his sobs. “Too much blood.” 

Jean crawled to Reiner slowly, touching his shoulder softly, feeling tears crawl down his own cheeks. Reiner turned to face him, his eyes wide and wet, his face so pained and distraught. 

“I-…” he choked out another sob and sniffled, “I tried, Jean…” he whispered.

Jean wrapped his arms around Reiner as he collapsed against him, tears still streaming down his face. Jean tried to speak, tried to comfort him, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead he put his hands on Reiner’s shoulders and lifted him up a bit.

“We can’t do anything for him now, okay? We need to go to Bert.” Jean stuttered through his tears, trying to nod surely, but knowing his own body was shaking like a building on a fault line. The blonde’s eyes perked up at the mention of his partner, and he stared at Jean’s face, confused and concerned. “Reiner. Come on.” Jean said again, ushering him up to stand. 

Reiner stumbled out of the bedroom, his feet dragging as he moved down the hall. Jean followed him out, before stopping and turning to look back at Armin’s lifeless body on the bed. He breathed heavily and wrenched his eyes away, not daring another glance lest he break, grabbing the door knob and pulling it shut hard behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Armin :( I'm sorry, dear. 
> 
> Nothing good can come of this. 
> 
> Sorry for the delay in posting; I was moving from Atlanta to Charleston, so things have been a little crazy! Chapter 7 will be up soon.


	7. The Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertholdt is taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is full of Reibert feels... I apologize in advance...

Bertholdt clutched his bleeding arm close to his chest as he pressed his back against the wall. He tried to ignore the persistent noises coming from the cellar – sounds alternating between Marco’s sweet, innocent voice and inhuman growls and swears, shouting up through the wood in a voice that in no way belonged to the freckled boy locked in that cellar. 

_“Bertholdt, sugar…”_ Marco cooed. Bertholdt said nothing, clenching his eyes shut and pressing his head back firmly against the wall, trying his best to block out any sound. He couldn't listen to this... 

_“Come on, Bertl… Help me… It’s me…”_

_“You stupid fucking whore faggot! I’m gunna rip you limb from limb, gunna swallow your fucking soul to hell!”_ , it screamed at him through the wooden door, voice overlapped, scratchy, and determined. Bertholdt tried to ignore the way the voices seemed to resonate around him, as if multiple people were speaking through Marco’s mouth. 

He couldn’t listen to it, _had_ to ignore it, that thing down there wasn’t Marco anymore. Instead, he focused his attention on his arm. The fingers of his right hand clutched around his left forearm, coating his fingers in the blood that was seeping steadily from the dark, angry wound. He sputtered out in pain at his own grip, pushing himself up off the wall to limp into the kitchen. He cried out at the searing, hot pain in his ankle as he dragged his foot along the floor limply, Marco’s angry words still trailing every haggard step he took. 

Bertholdt braced himself against the sink, fumbling to turn the water on. A sharp hiss slipped past his lips as he shoved his bloody, torn up arm underneath the hot water. He could hardly look at the wound without feeling sick to his stomach. He felt the sweat building up on his brow as the pain surged through him – he had never had a strong tolerance for pain, or even for gore, and the last two days had pushed him to what felt like his limit. 

The sound of Reiner’s raised voice from down the hall caught his attention, head whipping to try and glance down the passage as he held his arm under the water for as long as he could stand it. He couldn’t understand what he was saying, but he knew that was Reiner’s voice. 

The sudden onslaught of the pounding of his blood thrumming through his body overwhelmed him, the pulsing noise ringing through his ears as the pain from his wound shot up his arm. It would overtake him, this sound, he knew it, each pulse stinging with pain beneath the hot water of the faucet. He knew the bite had to be cleaned, knew that the debridement of the wound would only do him good, but the pain was too much to bear, the smell of the flesh and blood too overpowering for him. A vile sourness rose up in this throat and he sputtered over the sink, vomit and bile spewing past his lips and into the sink, mixing in with the watery blood flowing down the drain. 

With a rough cough, he spat out the remaining chunks lingering on his lips. He gagged slightly, trying to ignore the harsh, mocking laughs coming from beneath the cellar door, trying to ignore the stinging, metallic smell of the blood still trickling lightly from the open wound on his arm. Running a hand over his mouth, Bertholdt looked around the counter tops, desperately searching for a towel or a rag that he could wrap around his arm. He figured there might be something of use in the red bag Jean had taken to Reiner, but he didn’t think he could go back in that room without losing his goddamn mind. He couldn't see Armin like that again. And he didn’t think he could stand to go back in that room and find something worse than what he had left. 

The only towels in the kitchen that he could see were drenched in bright red, coated in Marco’s blood from earlier… or possibly Armin’s blood… Bertholdt couldn’t remember anymore, and he didn’t want to think about it, clenching his eyes shut tightly as he sputtered a bit, feeling the pain and sickness sink heavy into his gut. He wouldn’t let those rags near his wound, instead resolving to rip a long, thin piece off from around the bottom of his shirt to wrap around his forearm. Bert tied it off tightly with a grimace, having to grip one end with his teeth just to get it tied, and the ache surged each time he pulled and tightened the cloth. His wound throbbed mercilessly beneath the makeshift bandage, but the blood eventually slowed and he panted, staring at the angry wound with relief – however slight that relief was. 

He turned around, back braced against the sink, still gripping his injured arm surely. His eyes stayed trained on the bolted hatch in the living room, afraid to look away for too long, afraid it might open of its own accord. He could hear Marco thrashing around, the sound of metal and wood clattering around in the basement, angry growls and shouts emanating from the cellar with each clang and crash. 

Turning his attention down the hall, he could vaguely hear Reiner and Jean’s voices; Reiner was no longer shouting, but the sound of his voice was pained. He tried to listen more intently, tried his best to focus on the words, but they were becoming muffled and distant to his eardrums. Their voices were drowned out by the sudden pounding that took over his head, overcome by a sudden buzzing in his ears. He turned his head, eyes glancing at the wall clock, watching as the ticking second hand began to slow.. slow… slow… and stop. Until it began to tick again, moving backwards slowly, more quickly, until it was spinning so quickly he could hardly focus on it. 

Bertholdt felt his vision blur for a moment, as he sunk down to the floor, not even noticing the twinge in his broken ankle. His head felt full, as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton. He let it hang down as he curled up on the floor, back against the hard cabinets below the sink. 

With a slow, uneasy blink, Bertholdt stared down at the wound on his arm, bleeding steadily through his crude bandage, soaking it. He tried to block out the pounding in his head, tried to block out the steady ringing of blood pulsing through his veins, tried to block out the way Marco’s swears and screams and hums and coos kept piercing through the hazy veil that felt like it had enveloped him. 

Eyes trained on his injury, he felt his body beginning to shiver and shake. This was wrong, this was absolutely wrong. His skin felt too tight, his body felt twisted up and hot inside, the wound on his arm suddenly begged for attention, blood flow returning with a vengeance, soaking like ink through the cotton fabric he had tied around it. With a quivering hand, he unwound the dressing. 

Vaguely, through the muffled buzzing in his ears, he could hear Marco’s scathing, sing-song voice, singing out to him. 

_“We’re gunna get you… We’re gunna get you…”_

Through bleary eyes, he stared at his arm. The grievous wound looked black and gaping, and a stench of sulfur and rot emanated from it. The sight turned his stomach, but couldn’t break his focus, couldn’t look away, couldn’t tear his eyes from the abysmal maw that was the black gash in his flesh. His whole body was wracked with quakes and quivers, seizing and shaking with a burning, vile terror in his stomach. If he looked hard enough, he swore he could see… _things_ in it… things… _moving_ and _wriggling_ deep in the bloody, gnarled flesh. 

_“We’re gunna get you… Not another peep, time to go to sleep…”_

With an uneasy hand, blood still pounding through the buzzing in his ears, Bertholdt moved the fingers of his other hand closer to the wound. Unthinking and dazed, he prepared himself to dig down into the flesh, to gouge down into blood and sinews and pry out the writhing, twisting things that he swore were crawling through him. Whole body shaking, gritting his teeth to prepare for the pain, he moved to dig down deep, until a firm hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled it away. 

He threw his head up, eyes landing on Reiner’s blood covered form in front of him. He could see Reiner’s lips moving, but couldn’t hear the words he was saying over the hum, over the sound of Marco’s sweet, lilting voice singing out to him, taunting him. 

Reiner’s face was etched with fear and concern, blood was caked to his neck and shirt and arms, some smeared across his forehead and staining parts of his blonde hair. As Bertholdt stared, the buzzing in his ears began to die down, Marco’s voice suddenly absent, his boyfriend’s lips still moving, his worried voice coming into focus sharply. 

“-hat are you doing?!” Reiner cried desperately at him. 

Bertholdt could only stare up, locking bleary eyes with his partner who was holding so tightly onto his wrist. With a small shake of his head, Bert felt his senses growing sharper, more focused, until he could finally register the question Reiner was shouting at him, until he could register the _unbearable_ pain in his arm. He cried out against Reiner’s grip, eyes looking back down at his bloody arm with terror. Unable to stop himself, he flailed his feet forward, nearly kicking Reiner, but stopping short at the sudden onslaught of agony that shot up his leg from his mangled ankle. 

Reiner’s grip didn’t falter as Bertholdt fought against him. His cries were unbearable, distraught sobs suddenly ripping from his lips in panic as Reiner tightened his hold, and wrapped his other arm around Bertholdt’s flailing form. The blonde switched their positions, arms wrapped tight around his boyfriend, using every ounce of strength he had to spin them around and press his back against the cupboards, holding the taller man’s back against his chest. 

But Bertholdt wouldn’t let up, sobbing out loud, begging and pleading with them. 

“It’s inside me!” he screamed out, body struggling against Reiner. “No! Please!” 

“Shhh…” Reiner whispered soothingly into his partner’s ear, arms tightening their hold around Bertholdt, hoping to simply calm the fraught, struggling man. “It’s okay…” he grit out, and Jean couldn’t help but feel the weight of the lie as it slipped past Reiner’s lips. 

This wasn’t okay. This was in no fucking way okay. 

“Rei-Reiner…” Bertholdt sputtered out, still writhing a bit against the blonde’s grip, but steadying, his strength to fight dwindling. “P-please… Get… Get it out…” He coughed, body finally releasing, the fight leaving him, as he slowly relaxed, body slumping back against his boyfriend’s chest. 

Jean exited the room and returned quickly, holding a large shirt and tearing it haphazardly as he jogged back into the kitchen. Not even stopping to ask, Jean took ahold of Bert’s mangled arm, wrapping one long strip from the torn shirt around it and fastening it tightly, before applying another and another. 

Bertholdt had stopped his struggles entirely, panting softly, head hung low as he shivered in Reiner’s arms. Reiner let one arm slip out from around him to thread his fingers into his hair, coaxing his head up to lean back against his shoulder. He planted a firm kiss against Bertholdt’s cheek, mumbling soft, sweet reassurances into his ear. Jean tried not to listen, tried to ignore the tears that were sliding gracelessly down the blonde’s cheeks. 

With a short sigh, Jean slid away, crossing his legs beneath him as he sat on the hard wooden floor. He threaded his trembling fingers through his hair and tugged slightly, trying his best not to think. He tried to ignore the blood that covered his arms and hands, tried to ignore the red that was smeared across the floorboards. He tried to forget the fact that Armin – poor, undeserving Armin – was lying cold and lifeless behind the closed bedroom door down the hall. He tried not to think about how Marco had done this. 

No. 

Not Marco. _Marco_ hadn’t done this. That… _thing_ they had locked down in that cellar was not Marco. It couldn’t be him. It was an evil thing, a violent thing that wore Marco’s flesh, paraded around in a suit of Marco’s skin and blood. It wore his eyes, his smile, his freckles. But it wasn’t him. 

He turned his head around slowly, eyes landing on the locked cellar door, a sinking feeling invading his gut as he realized that the house was suddenly silent. No sounds came from the basement, no crashes or slams, no cries, no taunts, no laughter or growls. Just silence. He couldn’t stop the creeping chill that jolted up his spine as he stared into the living room with trained, focused eyes. 

“We have to do something…” Jean whispered, head turning hesitantly back to Reiner. 

Bertholdt had curled himself further against Reiner, crying silently into his chest as he clutched his shredded forearm to his chest. 

“We need to leave.” Reiner said flatly, hand still running through Bertholdt’s hair, not even caring about the blood and grime on his fingertips. But Bert shook his head softly against his boyfriend’s body, whispering softly. 

“They aren’t going to let you leave…” He spoke through his tears. 

Jean was about to respond, to ask what exactly Bertholdt meant by “they”, what he meant by "you", and not "us", but a sudden pop of static interrupted his thoughts. The three of them all whipped their glances back into the living room at the sound, a steady hum of static and white noise emanating from the old television that sat unused on the shelf in the den. 

Jean stood slowly, Reiner standing and hoisting Bertholdt up with him, helping him hobble towards a kitchen chair and easing him down into it. Jean stepped hesitantly towards the living room, as the hiss from the television continued. Reiner was beside him within the moment, the two of them moving further into the living room to the source of the noise. 

The white snowy static image on the old television froze as they approached, the white noise stopping abruptly with it. The screen went solid grey and fuzzy, before a soft, childish voice broke the silence, seeping out through the old television’s speakers. 

_“We lay my love and I… beneath the weeping willow… But now alone I lie and weep beside the tree, singing O’ Willow Waly by the tree that weeps with me…”_

Jean could hear Marco suddenly humming along with the tune. Jean had always loved this song, and Marco used to love to hear him hum it, even though Marco had always insisted it was too dark for Jean. Too somber, too eerie a melody to slip past Jean's lips. Jean had always disagreed. It was somber and sad, yes, but touching and sweet. But now... As Jean listened to the hissing sound of it through the old television, as he listened to Marco - _not Marco anymore_ \- hum along with it, it pained him. The grating, tainted sound of it shook him down to his bones. 

Reiner didn’t hesitate before striding forward and swiftly pressing some of the buttons on the television’s side, fumbling with it in a desperate effort to turn it off. But the singing continued, never breaking, never faltering. 

_“Singing O’ Willow Waly, till my lover returns to me… We lay, my love and I, beneath the weeping willow...”_

“Goddamn, fuck this!” Reiner shouted, shoving the set off the shelf roughly. The frame cracked and the screen shattered a bit as it hit the ground, and the childish, lilting song stopped for a moment. Reiner stepped back away from it, stepping back to stand beside Jean. He let out a shuddering breath, as a cruel, taunting giggle trickled up from the cellar and the child’s song resumed through the busted television. 

_“Singing O’ Willow Waly, till my lover returns to me… We lay, my love and I, beneath the weeping willow… But now alone I lie…. Oh willow, I die… Oh willow, I die…”_

Jean shook his head, as Marco’s giggles became full fits of taunting laughter. Reiner gawked at the busted television which still sang out eerily to the two of them. His lips curled in disbelief, his hands shook, feet planted against the floor as he stared, unsure of whether he should continue to dismantle the thing or simply let it continue. 

Neither he nor Jean noticed the sound of the creaking of a chair in the kitchen. Neither of them noticed the sound of an object being grabbed from the floor, or the sound of limping, a foot dragging along the floor with each arduous step.

Marco’s laughter continued, growls and hollers booming out from just under the floorboards, as Jean and Reiner stepped back away from the still-singing telelvision set. Jean stumbled backwards half a stride more before his back collided with something. 

He turned around in time only to see Bertholdt’s form looming over him, the irises of his eyes wide, red and orange, pupils solid black, glaring down at him, arm held above his head. In his hand, he gripped the handle of the knife that had been discarded earlier. Jean shouted out, Reiner spinning around as Bertholdt swung his arm down, knife colliding and slicing across Jean’s cheek as the shorter man screamed and tumbled back to the floor. 

Reiner darted forward quickly, moving to grab hold of Bertholdt’s arm that held the knife firmly, but Bertholdt blocked him down with ease. He slammed his arm against the blonde’s chest, sending him topping backwards against the side wall as if Reiner – with all his muscle and brawn – were made of paper. He collided with the wall with a grunt, the air leaving his chest for a moment, head slamming against the wood, as Bertholdt – turned his attention back to Jean. 

Jean was scrambling on the ground, moving to get his arms and legs beneath him to move away from this thing that was wearing Bertholdt’s skin, controlling his damaged body like a puppet. Bertholdt growled out as he limped after Jean, blood beginning to dribble from his mouth, eyes still piercing and red and _angry_. Jean fumbled up quickly, trying not to think about the blood that was pouring from his cheek, and dared a glance at Bert, watching as this thing pursued him, attempting to utilize his broken ankle, each step rolling the joint further, bone protruding through his jeans as it bent and snapped. But Bertholdt didn’t stop, moving quickly even with the busted ankle. With one swing of his other arm, Bertholdt had grabbed hold of him and thrown him to the ground. 

He stood over Jean, landing hard on top of him and pinning him to the floor with one hand around his neck. Jean gripped at Bertholdt’s forearm, fingers wrapping around it, accidentally digging into the gaping, black wound in his flesh as he frantically tried to pull the arm from his neck. But it wouldn’t budge. In an instant, Bertholdt’s other arm swung the knife down hard, burrowing it deeply into Jean’s shoulder. Jean tried to scream, the pain taking over as the knife twisted and dug in hard, but the unyielding grip around his throat stopped the sound, stopped the breath from entering his lungs. 

He looked at Bert with wild, frantic eyes, the sound of Marco’s shouts and laughter from the cellar beneath him ringing in his ears as he felt his vision going dark. The cellar door under his back began to shake and rattle as Marco flung his body up against it. But Jean couldn’t focus. He was fading. Ears buzzing, eyes hazy, as Bertholdt snarled down at him. 

Jean let his eyes slipped closed, almost ready to let go, almost ready to give up. Maybe this was the best he could hope for. Maybe dying was the only way out of here now. Maybe this was best. 

But in the next instant, the pressure released from his throat, and he sucked down a desperate breath as Reiner yanked Bertholdt off and to the floor. 

With an angry snarl, Bertholdt screeched and launched himself at Reiner. Reiner had braced himself this time, grabbing ahold of Bert as he lunged, and flinging him off to the side roughly before scrambling forward to help Jean. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Reiner ripped the knife out of Jean’s shoulder and pulled him up, Jean still coughing and gasping for air, neck throbbing, knowing that dark, fingermarks were already forming. He struggled through the pain that surged through his shoulder and arm, pushed through the gasps as he tried his best to regain his breath. Reiner merely yanked him up and shoved him away from Bertholdt, who was already pushing up from the wall to stand again, starting back towards them with labored, limping steps, his broken ankle still contorted and grotesque. 

Jean fumbled back as Reiner pushed him out of the way, body toppling backwards towards the kitchen. He regained his balance and stood braced, ready to run down the hall, towards the back of the cabin. But Reiner didn’t come. Jean watched as Bertholdt moved forward determinedly towards Reiner, his head twitching, neck snapping over to the side as he advanced on his partner. Reiner stood his ground, standing in front of Jean to protect him, knife gripped tightly in his fist. His face was firm, but there was a gleam in his eyes that showed the doubt, the fear, the pain at watching Bertholdt become this… this thing, this monster… this… _demon_. 

“Reiner!” Jean shouted, trying to get his friend to step away, to run from this thing that now only resembled the man he loved. 

Reiner turned his head towards Jean, eyes wide with terror, and Jean stared back at him, urging him to come on, urging him to run. There was a falter in Reiner’s gaze, a moment when Jean saw the wall break. The blonde shook his head, as Jean’s own gaze darted between him and the advancing monstrosity. 

Bertholdt advanced with a mindless determination, already upon them and grabbing harshly at Reiner, tossing him down across the floor, sending his body skidding across the cellar door, back slamming against the couch with a loud “OOPH”. Bert snapped his head around towards Jean, trained on him as if he were a piece of meat. He started towards him, but Reiner was up again, grappling onto the taller man by the shoulders, and yanking him backwards. Jean heard the SNAP of Bertholdt’s already mangled ankle as he stumbled back. Jean moved quickly to assist, charging forward at Bert and tackling him down as best he could while Reiner fought him down. 

Bertholdt stumbled under their hold, falling back to the floor, but the sheer strength emanating from his broken, mangled body was overpowering. He flailed his head and body, one arm reaching back and snatching Reiner’s hand off his shoulder, quickly sinking his teeth down into the meat of it, as Reiner shouted and jerked back away. The blonde fumbled back, leaving Jean alone to struggle. Bertholdt had no trouble with him, flinging him off quickly, throwing his body like a rag doll against the wall. 

Jean struggled to bring his knees up underneath him. His body was wracked with pain, the air had pushed of his lungs, his muscles ached, his head was pounding, he could hardly see straight. But he watched with bleary eyes as Reiner, bloody hand and body, ran towards Bertholdt and tackled him down, pinning the thrashing mess of a creature against the floor.

A sudden SLAM jarred the whole floor of the cabin. Both Jean and Reiner turned their eyes towards the cellar door, as another SLAM hit up against it. Marco was shouting out, howling and hollering up at the fight above, tossing his body against the cellar door. Jean saw the latch jiggle with each and every hit, the wood of the door splintering from the impact. 

“Jean, the hatch!” Reiner shouted roughly. 

Jean scrambled up to his feet as quickly as he could. His head was pounding, there was a pain coursing through every fiber of his being that he had never felt before. He felt dizzy and unsteady, but he had to focus. He stumbled over towards the cellar door, tossing himself on top of it as it slammed up again, the full brunt of the creature’s strength behind each blow. His shaking fingers fumbled with the heavy latch, doing his best to slide it back fully closed. After a couple of attempts, struggling around the consistent blows Marco was giving against it, he finally shoved the latch back closed and locked fully. 

But it wouldn’t hold, not for long. Jean looked around the room desperately, eyes landing on the couch. He rushed over, moving to one side of it and pushing with all his might against the arm. The couch scraped across the floor, moving a couple inches, but not nearly enough. He ran to the other side and frantically began to pull it, dragging the heavy furniture along the floor and on top of the hatch to the cellar. 

Marco still fought against it, but the extra weight seemed to help. It would hold… for a while, at least. 

When Jean looked up again, Bertholdt had somehow flipped Reiner down to his back. The knife was held tightly in Reiner’s right hand, but Bertholdt had it firmly pinned to the floor. He was snarling down at Reiner, blood dripping from his mouth as he delivered a hard, bruising blow to Reiner’s face. Reiner cried out, his one free arm flailing up to claw at Bertholdt, scratching along his face, shoving at his neck and shoulder, unable to fight the strength the brunette was exerting over him. 

Jean didn’t think before he ran and grabbed the lamp off the end table, yanking off the shade and swinging it hard against the back of Bertholdt’s head. The glass of the bulb broke instantly, shattering against the nape of Bert’s neck, one shard creating a deep gouge in the nape. Bertholdt let out an inhuman roar, a black, oil-like liquid resembling blood beginning to spill out of the gash. 

Bertholdt fumbled for a moment from the brunt of the blow, his grip loosening on Reiner’s arm. Reiner shoved quickly, pushing Bert up off of him, before – without a second thought – he swung his arm with a crazed shout, and thrust the knife hard into Bertholdt’s chest. 

Bertholdt stopped instantly, body still and silent.

The shift was heavy and fast, the quiet dropping over the room like a curtain. There was a brief moment of calm, a sudden lull in the chaos that had raged not ten seconds before. The atmosphere was stagnant and stifling. Reiner was frozen, his hand still gripping the handle of the blade, eyes wide with panic and terror at the sight of the knife he had plunged deep into his lover’s chest. Bertholdt’s body began to shake; it wasn’t a violent, jerking twitch this time, though. It was a shiver, a terrified, cold shiver that wracked him from head to toe. His head was angled down, eyes fixed on the bold hand flush against his chest. Reiner released the handle almost immediately, yanking his hand back silently as if it had burned him.

The only sound to break the quiet was the soft, but pained and desperate whimper that trembled off Bertholdt’s lips. 

Reiner heard it – he heard it clear as day. That wasn’t a growl, that wasn’t a grating, inhuman voice. That was Bertholdt’s voice, his Bertl, his boy there before him, bleeding hard around the blade, and crying out in pain. Bert raised his head slowly, his eyes meeting Reiner’s. They were wild and pained and terrified, and they weren’t red, or orange, or black. They were green. They were vibrant and green, terrified and confused, and Reiner met them with a sudden, sharp anguish flaring up in his chest. 

“Reiner…?” Bertholdt whispered softly, his body suddenly wavering as he looked back down at the knife still embedded in his chest. 

Reiner wanted to pull it out, but he knew it would only bleed faster if he removed it. Instead, he stayed frozen in place, watching as Bertholdt wavered again, struggling to maintain balance on his knees. His arms hung limply at his sides, his injured one bleeding through the t-shirt bandaging that was still wrapped around it. 

Bert raised his head again slowly, and the look of dread and agony on his face was unmistakable, the fear fucking palpable. Jean could only look on in horror, watching as tears began to well up in Reiner’s eyes. The blonde shook his head curtly, his breath suddenly coming out in desperate, uneven pants as he stared. Disbelieving. Afraid. Knowing... 

“Rei-Reiner?” Bertholdt stuttered again, voice broken and needy and afraid. Blood still dribbled from his mouth but it was different this time... It wasn't vile or menacing. It was... It was injured... It was agonized... It was _human_. Bertholdt's eyes were wet with tears, his brow furrowed with pain. “Wh-what did…” he started, his heavy breaths stopping his words, breaking his eye contact with Reiner as he slumped forward, whimpering out in pain, as the blood began to pool and spill around the blade, soaking through his shirt, dripping down and staining his jeans. 

“Bertholdt… No…” Reiner whispered, almost pleading, still frozen in place as he watched his partner waver. 

Bert lifted his uninjured arm slowly, reaching out for Reiner before he fell forward, his body collapsing onto the floor, barely catching himself on his elbows with a harsh cry. With shaking, movements, Bertholdt tried to crawl forward, tried to inch his way closer to Reiner, but his body wouldn’t move.

Reiner didn’t wait, crawling forward quickly and edging Bertholdt to lie on his side, pulling his body to him and resting Bertholdt’s head in his lap. Jean covered his mouth as he heard a sob pour from Reiner’s lips, his hands moving over Bertholdt, longing to hold him tighter, but terrified to touch, afraid to cause him more pain. 

Bertholdt sputtered and shook in his arms, breaths coming out in heaving, pained sobs as he stared up at Reiner’s face. Reiner could only look on, running his hand over Bertholdt’s hair, the tears seeping harder from his eyes. 

“Reiner…” Bertholdt sobbed out, “I h-hurt.” he struggled through each word, his pained cries interrupting each syllable he eked out. “Wh-why do I-I hurt?” 

Jean shook his head, inching away from the two of them, backing himself against the wall as he pulled his legs up into his chest. Between Bertholdt’s pained, sputtering sounds, Marco’s snarls and laughs and growls, and Reiner’s desperate cries, he couldn’t stand it. He closed his eyes tightly, hands slipping up of their own accord to cover his ears, to try and block out the madness, try and block out the dying, desperate sounds of the only friends he had ever known. 

Reiner clenched his eyes shut hard, tears stinging as he leaned his head back, hands and arms gripping onto Bertholdt more tightly. His fingers were twisted in the fabric of Bertholdt’s shirt, his other hand still resting on Bert’s head. When he opened his eyes again, he had hoped perhaps to wake up, had hoped that this had all been some horrible nightmare. He had hoped to wake up at home, nestled in the blankets beside his lover, had hoped perhaps that this cabin had never existed in the first place. But all he was met with was Bertholdt’s agonized face staring up at him – so terrified, so confused, so wracked with pain and hurt that he couldn’t stop the sobs that shook and wracked his damaged body. 

Reiner shook his head, his face contorted with sadness and regret, desperation and anger. He couldn’t make this better, and he knew it. 

“Re-reiner… Help m-me…” 

“I-I'm so sorry, baby…” he whispered through his tears, eyes locking hard with Bertholdt’s own. 

“I-I wanna go ho-home… P-please… Can-can we...” the brunette whimpered softly, pleading, and begging through his pain for Reiner to make this better. For Reiner to make this all not real. But Reiner couldn’t… Not this time. He shook his head, and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against Bertholdt’s, still cradling the taller man’s body in his arms. 

“Shhhh…” he whispered softly to him, his last-ditch effort to calm just one iota of the suffering and fear that was coursing through Bertholdt. He pulled his head up slowly and looked into those shining, green eyes. 

“Sh-shhh…” Reiner shushed again, keeping his eyes locked with his lover's. He watched as Bertholdt’s face relaxed a bit, his eyes still quivering. “Hey…” he murmured, patting Bertholdt’s cheek gently, sniffling slightly as the tears refused to stop. “Hey, listen... listen to me…” Bertholdt focused on him, his attention trained, as Reiner began to hum out a soft melody, his fingers stroking gently through Bertholdt’s hair. 

_“We started a fire with the faintest of sparks.”_ , Reiner lulled out softly to him, a pained, small smile on his lips as he stroked the side of Bertholdt’s face. He nodded down at him, offering whatever reassurance he could muster, as if reminding him that this had always been their song. He saw the recognition in Bertholdt’s eyes gleam before he continued. 

_“Sprung from the friction of two empty hearts.”_

Bertholdt smiled softly, still shaking and shivering in Reiner’s arms as the blond sang. His voice was hushed and broken, and he couldn’t stop the shaking fear that graced his every word, but he sang on, fingers coursing over his lover’s bloody cheek tenderly. 

_“We swept out the ashes and went on our way…”_

He paused, his face etched with pain as he watch Bertholdt stare up at him, his eyes steadily glazing over as he stared. Reiner tried to sing again, but his voice was overcome with tears, as his fingers tightened their grip in his lover’s shirt. 

_“From the deepest… of red… to the lightest… of…”_

He didn’t go on, couldn’t go on, as he stared down at Bertholdt’s suddenly slack face. He lips shook as he looked into Bertholdt’s eyes that gazed lifelessly up at him. He shook his head, his hands and fingers now gripping his body as if it might disappear from him. Reiner breathed heavily, his body shaking hard, before he suddenly let out a loud and pained, drawn out cry. With a jerking hand, he yanked out the knife and tossed it across the floor before maneuvering Bertholdt’s limp form against his own body desperately as he wept – bawling unrestrained and wild with distress. 

Jean heard the sobs through the hands that covered his ears. He didn't have to look up to know what had happened. He shook his head, tightening his hands over his ears as hard as he could. Anything to take him out of here... Anything to make this be some horrible, awful nightmare... Anything to let him dissociate for even a fraction of a second... 

Reiner held Bertholdt’s body, pressing them chest to chest, ignoring as blood seeped into his shirt. The brunette’s head rested limp and slack against Reiner’s shoulder, as Reiner’s fingers threaded in the hair on the back of his head to cradle him. 

Reiner’s tears began to slow, his sobs only sporadic and uneven - breathy and defeated... broken. He lowered Bert’s body back to the floor, and stroked his face gently, tenderly as he stared down at him. He wiped his eyes hard before leaning forward, pressing his lips hard against Bertholdt’s forehead. 

“I’m so sorry…” Reiner whispered against the cold, bloody skin of his forehead. “Bertl… P-please... Forgive me…”

::

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sing-song _We're gunna get you..._ is a pretty classic Evil Dead trope, so I definitely had to include it. 
> 
> The two songs mentioned in this chapter are [O' Willow Waly](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0uNJp15p3M) as sung by Isla Cameron, and [Faintest of Sparks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gi-Kt1jH_nM) by Amandine. 
> 
> Faintest of Sparks always reminded me of Reiner/Bertholdt, it seemed like it would be a song the two of them would relate to. So it only appropriate for it to be their song, and to be the last thing Reiner might ever sing to Bertholdt. 
> 
> I made myself sad.... 
> 
> Chapter 8 to come soon!


	8. The Hell We're In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing feels real, and a closer look at the wretched book reveals more about their situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo, apologies that this chapter took a little longer to upload. I wound up attempting to draw a couple of the pages from the book. And I'm... I'm gunna share them in this chapter, even though I'm 98% sure they are trash. But hey, gotta put myself out there a bit. Hopefully they aren't 100% garbage.

Jean didn’t know how long they sat there. He had kept his arms wrapped around his head, trying his best to block out every sound, trying to block out the horrid, putrid nightmare that was the world around him. His whole body quaked in the quiet. 

The ghastly noises from the cellar had long since quieted, and the desperate, anguished cries from Reiner had dwindled down into a stony, sobering silence. But Jean still couldn’t bear to raise his head. Couldn’t bear to lift his gaze and accept what had become of the only people he had ever cared for. He could feel the tears prickling at his eyes, threatening to drown him down in self-pity and regret. 

Maybe if he had never left when things got bad, this would have never happened. If he had just stuck by Marco’s side when he had first showed signs of a drug problem – like a good, caring partner would have – maybe he could have helped. Maybe if he had helped then, Marco could have recovered in safety, and they all would have never been out at this cabin in the first place. The two of them could be a strong couple still, stronger even for the hardship of the addiction that they both had endured and overcome. They would laugh and smile together, hold hands and nuzzle cheeks, kiss and make love. They would visit their friends. They would have had movie nights at Armin’s while Jean and Eren bickered and bitched about the details and nuances of whether or not the top was still spinning at the end of Inception. 

Marco would have laughed when Jean called Eren a pompous little know-it-all. Marco would have _probably_ laughed harder when Eren called Jean a horse-faced little shit. And Marco would have made Jean feel better when he pouted the whole drive home. They would have gone on double dates with Reiner and Bertholdt – his two friends, desperately in love and mad about each other, would have drug them all over town, to bars and clubs and nice restaurants, because that’s just how Reiner and Bertl always were. 

Jean thought back to his promise to Marco – he had sworn that they were going to be okay, that they were going to go back and start over… _together_. But it wasn’t looking like starting over was an option anymore. He had – however briefly – thought that perhaps things could go back to the way they were before he had left. 

But not now. There would be no more good times, it seemed, no more double dates. No hope for movie nights at Armin’s anymore. Jean didn’t even want to think about Eren or Mikasa now. He couldn’t bear the thought of the pain that would lace every feature of Eren’s face. No matter how much that little brat annoyed him, seeing Eren in pain still broke Jean a little inside. And Mikasa… she would hold herself together – she always did – but the anguish would be there. Jean could already see the glistening pain in her eyes as Eren would break beside her at the news of Armin’s…. _gruesome_ … and _undeserved_ death. 

Jean dared a glance up, his eyes bleary and his body suddenly weak. His gaze landed on Reiner’s blood drenched form sitting across from him, leaned back against the opposite wall, still cradling Bertholdt’s lifeless body in his arms. Reiner’s face was blank as he stared down at Bertholdt’s – eyes still open, staring emptily up at the ceiling – as he stroked Bert’s cold, blood-stained skin softly… tenderly. 

Jean could only watch, the feeling of sudden, hopeless despair twisting up in his chest as he saw another silent tear slip down Reiner’s cheek. Reiner’s face was dirty – covered with a layer of grime and blood from the all the scuffling and struggling and fighting; his own blood, Armin’s blood, Bertholdt’s blood, and god only knew what else. The only clean spots had been streaked out from the steady path of tears that had raked their way down his face. 

This was not an image of denial, Jean realized with a burning ache. This was the face of defeat – the face of broken acceptance. As Jean watched Reiner’s trembling hand stroke along the face of his lifeless lover, he realized that this was the face of a man who had nothing left to give. This was the image of a man who had no fight left. This was a man who had lost his last shred of determination and hope the instant Bertholdt had stopped breathing.

Jean’s breath was uneven, his body shivering in the quiet, lips quivering. What could he do now? What could he say? What do you say to someone who has given up? What do you say when your own will is threatening to give out underneath the crushing weight of hopelessness and death? 

The answer is, you don’t say anything. Because there’s nothing to be said. Jean sighed.

“Jean…” Reiner whispered softly into the silence. 

Jean stared at him, mouth still refusing to make a sound. Reiner’s gaze lifted slowly to meet Jean’s eyes. 

“J-Jean… He… He’s cold…” 

And those two words alone were enough to shatter him. Jean couldn’t look at him anymore, couldn’t bear the sight of Reiner – so lost and confused as he held onto Bertholdt’s corpse – staring at him as if Jean might have an answer. Jean buried his head in his hands again and let out a sob – unrestrained and unbridled – an anguish seeping through that he thought might never end. He couldn’t do this. He had never been strong. He had never been the one who knew what should be done. He had never been the one to make things better. That had always, always been Marco. 

Jean pressed his back hard against the wall, not even trying to hide the way he wept – out of fear, and pain, and sheer, utter hopelessness. He could hear Reiner shuffling a bit, and he opened his bleary eyes to watch as Reiner began to push up off the floor, Bertholdt cradled in his arms still as he lifted his body off the floorboards. 

“Can you help me?” Reiner asked flatly, voice barely pushing past his lips. “I don’t… I don’t want him on the floor…” 

Jean stood hesitantly, back sliding up against the wall as Reiner – with Bertholdt in his arms – stepped past him slowly towards the spare bedroom. Jean didn’t have to ask before he opened the door for him. Reiner slid in quietly and ever-so-gently set Bertholdt’s body on the bed closest to the window, Marco’s bed. Marco didn’t need it now, Jean realized solemnly. Reiner laid him down with care, Jean watching as he folded Bert’s limp arms neatly on his chest and straightened his legs, taking care to avoid his busted ankle, as if touching it might still hurt the brunette. 

Reiner lowered to his knees slowly, elbows braced on the side of the bed, and Jean realized this was the second time he had seen Reiner in this position. But Reiner didn’t weep this time, not anymore. He stayed at Bertholdt’s side, fingers clasped together, tongue darting out to wet his lips before he stood up again. He leant over and pressed a tender kiss against Bert’s forehead, before straightening up, pulling some rigidity into his spine, and stepping back from the bedside. 

He didn’t move to leave yet, though. Standing now a couple strides away, eyes still trained on his lover, as if he might wake up any minute now. Jean dared to speak. 

“Reiner… I don’t… I don’t know what to do…” he mumbled with a short shake of his head. 

The blonde’s head turned slowly, locking his gaze with Jean’s, before breathing out unevenly and taking another tentative step away from the bed. He moved closer to the door, head turning back with every couple of feet to look, before finally seeming to resolve himself and force his way past Jean and out of the room. 

As he slipped out, Reiner suddenly seemed to notice his arms, still caked in darkening red. He began to breathe heavily suddenly, running his hands over his arms frantically before darting towards the kitchen and fumbling with the faucet. Jean watched him move and turned to stumble after him, unsure of why he followed. Perhaps, he realized, it was because Reiner was now his only connection. His only grounding point in this fucking _hell_ that had become their lives. He followed Reiner into the kitchen, watching as the blonde began to scrub furiously at his arms underneath the steaming water. 

Jean could just barely hear the whimpers coming from Reiner’s lips as he scrubbed and scrubbed at his flesh beneath the scalding stream. He could see that Reiner was shaking, shoulders quaking as he moved. Jean wanted to reach out to him, wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what he could possibly say anymore. 

Suddenly, Reiner slammed the water off, bracing himself heavily against the sink, shoulders still shaking, arms dripping wet, but now only red from his irritated, flared flesh rather than layers of blood that had tried to cake itself to his skin. 

With a short huff, Reiner turned around, not bothering to dry his hands before striding over to the kitchen table and frustratingly flinging open the grotesque text still resting on it. 

“What are you doing?” Jean asked softly, moving uneasily to Reiner’s side, almost afraid to even look down at this monstrosity of a book. 

Reiner bit his lip, not looking up at Jean as he flipped through a few pages. 

“Armin… before he…” He paused, words halting on his tongue, before shaking his head, “he told me to use the book. I don’t… I don’t know what that means. But I saw him earlier… He was making notes, so they’ve got to be in here…” 

He flipped a couple more pages over before coming across a small piece of notebook paper stuffed in between two pages. Reiner picked it up, glancing from it to the pages of the book it had been stuck between. On the pages of the text was a black and red line drawing of a disjointed, skeletal figure crawling up from the ground. Its face was grotesque and twisted, its gaunt expression smiling and contorted as it tore its way up from the earth. Jean looked over his shoulder at the paper Reiner held. There were words written on it, neat and tidy, clearly Armin’s fastidious handwriting.

Reiner sighed softly, glancing between the torn sheet of paper and the page in the book his fingers still rested on. He licked his lips softly, Jean moving closer beside him.

“If we… if we summoned it… There’s gotta be a way to… Un-summon it, right?” Jean tried, his voice faltering with every word. 

He couldn’t help the way he flinched at the sudden, piercing sound of Marco laughing hysterically up through the cellar door. Jean closed his eyes at the noise, doing his best to block it out, doing his best to remind himself that _that wasn’t Marco_. It was a _thing_ down in that cellar, it was an evil thing that they were somehow going to get rid of. The laughter died down quickly and he opened his eyes again, moving to grab the piece of paper with Armin’s handwriting on it from in between Reiner’s fingers. 

“Is there anything else?” 

Reiner wordlessly flipped a few more pages. Jean didn’t want to look at them, but he couldn’t break his eyes away from the gruesome images that were sketched onto each and every page of the text. Ghastly depictions of male and female figures, bloodied, dismembered, mutilated on every page they flipped to. Inhuman serpentine creatures with vaguely humanoid faces, sharp teeth, dripping with red. One page in particular caught his eye – the page with the figure of a man, nude and emaciated, with a blade held against his skin, pulling vines out from his open wounds. Its face was twisted and anguished, screaming up towards the skies as it mutilated itself, and Jean just couldn’t look at it. 

He tried not to think about what he had seen earlier… Tried not to think about seeing Marco on his knees in the kitchen, screaming out in agony, holding a knife against his flesh, covered in open, bloody gashes. He didn’t want to remember it, didn’t want to remember how he had watched Reiner sew up those cuts. He couldn’t bear the thought of it, and seeing it etched out in front of him, like it was always meant to happen, made him fucking ill. Jean reached around Reiner and forcefully flipped over the next couple of pages. 

But after the first few pages he skipped over, Reiner abruptly grabbed hold of his wrist and lifted his fingers away from the pages, exhaling slowly as he turned back one page tentatively. Reiner didn’t say a word, releasing Jean’s wrist shakily as he stared down at the red and black sketch before him. On the page was the image of a tall, towering male figure with a dark head of hair, one of its arms torn and mangled, one of its ankles broken and bent horribly. The man’s face was angry and menacing, missing some of the skin on its cheeks, showing only flared, steaming muscle and sinew. It was inhuman, and yet… familiar. And Jean knew exactly why. 

Jean saw Reiner’s fingers graze over the dark head of hair on the drawing, and he dared a glance up at the other man as he stared down at the page. The blonde’s face was blank, his lips in a tight line, eyes never leaving the page as he forced down a thick swallow. 

“It’s like it knows…” Reiner whispered as quietly as he could, despite the hissing way the words slipped past his teeth. “It’s like it fucking _knows_.” 

“Reiner…” Jean whispered, unsure of what to say, merely attempting to garner his attention, anything to pull his eyes away from that horrific image. Jean moved Reiner’s hand slowly away from the text, flipping forward through the next few pages himself. 

The next couple pages were filled with an unrecognizable text, a language that Jean was certain he had never seen before in his life. He did his best not to linger on it, it didn’t really matter what the words said because he couldn’t use them if he couldn’t read them. As he turned them, Reiner once again reached out to him, pausing him more gently this time on another image. 

This one was different. The figure had a larger build, clearly masculine, square shoulders and a firm jawline, with no coloring on its hair. It sat on its knees on the ground, a torch in one of its hands, and surrounded by fire. Its face was calm and contented in the midst of the flames that engulfed it, a smirk on its face as if it were fucking proud.

Jean shook his head, exhaling slowly. He started in his skin as Reiner suddenly began to laugh. Deep, gut-wrenching belly laughter spilling from his mouth as he stumbled backwards and away from the table. He doubled over, body still quaking with a chilled, wrenching hilarity that shook Jean down to his core. Jean turned to track Reiner’s movements as he backed away a couple of steps from the table.

“Ahahaha-haha!” the blonde bellowed out, before bringing a hand to his eyes to wipe away the wetness. “It’s… it’s me…” he giggled out, pointing at the book resting on the table. 

“ _What?_ ” Jean demanded. 

“That one, ahaha, that one’s me, don’t you see it?” He asked with a grin, eyes wide, staring at Jean as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Reiner, stop.” He said, attempting to come off more firmly that he had before, but the nervous crack in his voice was painfully noticeable. 

At this point, Jean heard Marco’s tiny little giggles slipping up through the cellar door as Reiner laughed out loud. He used to love Marco’s laugh, but the grating sound of it now, interspersed with voices and noises that were in no way his own, Jean wished nothing more than to simply go deaf. He wished only that he would never have to hear the sound of that putrid laughter slithering its way past Marco’s teeth. With a shaky finger, Reiner pointed over to the cellar, still laughing hard, and laughing even harder as Marco kept his snickers and giggles going. 

“No, no, it is. It is. See?” He chortled out, flinging his thumb over to point at the cellar again, as if to emphasize Marco’s giggling as a spiteful agreement. “He knows it.” 

“Just fucking stop!” Jean hissed harshly. 

Reiner’s laughter quelled quickly, the fits and cackles morphing dramatically quickly into choked, desperate sobs as he stood upright more, staring at Jean. His face was so twisted and unhinged, weeping profoundly with a broken, small smile on his open mouth. 

“Don’t you see it? That one’s me… Just like that other one was Bertl, and Marco…” He nodded frantically through his tears. “Yours will come too…”

He paused, his smile fading into a worried frown, and the defeat etching its way into every crevice and furrow on his face. 

“We aren’t getting out, Jean… We aren’t leaving… Not unless.” Reiner stopped mid-sentence, his eyes suddenly wild and focused as he turned his stare towards the cellar door. 

“Unless _what_?” Jean whispered. 

“Unless we kill him.” 

Jean snapped his mouth closed, turning away from Reiner quickly, diverting his attention back to the wretched book on the table. He flipped a few more pages, pointedly not acknowledging Reiner’s words.

“There’s gotta be something else here, Armin had to have looked at more than just that summoning text.” Jean mumbled softly. 

He began to get frantic, fingers gripping each page tightly as he flipped, suddenly acutely aware of Reiner standing more closely behind him. 

“Maybe he made some more notes…” Jean said again, flipping back and forth between the pages, eyes not really taking anything in, eyes not truly wanting to absorb any of the grisly images presented on almost every page. 

“Jean.” Reiner said flatly, putting one hand on his shoulder. Jean shrugged him off quickly, ignoring him and continuing to scan through the book. 

“ _Jean._ ” Reiner said firmly this time. 

“No!” He shouted out at him, flipping one last page before whipping his head around to Reiner, flinging the other man’s hand off of him. 

He pressed his back against the table, his chest as far away from Reiner as he could manage. He could hardly control his breathing, feeling as if a fire were lit inside his chest, burning him up from the inside out at the mere _thought_ of… of… 

He locked eyes with Reiner, whose own were glistening wet, mad and listless all at the same time. Jean grit his teeth as he forced himself to swallow down the lump that had grown in his throat. Reiner placed both hands on his biceps, holding him firmly, face hard and unrelenting. Jean started to glance down and away from him, but Reiner gave him a small, curt squeeze, re-commanding his attention. 

“Jean.” 

There was no anger or hostility in his tone; it was merely firm and factual, as he ushered Jean to turn back around and look down at the page he had stopped on. 

Staring up at him from the page was the image of two male figures – one demonic in appearance, still housed in a humanoid figure, covered with lacerations, spikes along its back. The other looked human, and the two were in obvious confrontation. The more human figure was on his hands and knees, crawling along the ground, as the demonic figure, with its shredded flesh and wide, grinning, dripping maw, had a hand secured tightly around the man’s leg, dragging him along the ground towards a black and red pit of nothingness. Jean stared down at it feeling his knees growing weak beneath the suddenly oppressive weight of his body. 

In the margins, beside the scrawl of some ancient letters, written in neat, black handwriting that Jean was sure was Armin’s, it read. 

_“Dragged into hell…”_

**::**

“There has to be another way…” Jean whispered, sliding down into the kitchen chair gingerly, pulling the book closer to him, and quickly turning the page away from that… demonic hell-beast that frighteningly resembled Marco.

Reiner sighed hard and stepped back, beginning to pace a bit. Jean just flipped a few more pages, each one filled to the brim with a text Jean couldn’t even begin to figure out how to understand without Armin’s help. 

“Like what?” Reiner mumbled, before finally giving in and plopping into the chair next to Jean’s. 

Jean shook his head slowly, he felt helpless and clueless, staring down at the text in front of him. As he flipped, he came across a few more drawings, some of grotesque creatures crawling up from the dirt, others of disembodied hands and feet and eyeballs. But there was one that caught his eye. 

The page was half covered in the foreign, confusing text, and the bottom half showed an image of the demonic figure, and all its mangled flesh and burning eyes, tied up tightly against a tree. In front of it was a human figure pointing at it. The demon’s head was thrown back, screaming, as a steaming, filmy-looking mist poured out from its mouth. 

“What is that?” Reiner asked softly, scooting closer. 

“I don’t, I don’t know, it looks like an exorcism if I had to guess but…” Jean scanned the page more intently, eyes grazing over the text frantically, as if hoping it might somehow mean something to him. He looked over the margins, flipped the page and looked at the other side, desperately hoping Armin had left some little clue, some note for them that could fucking _help_ them. 

“Goddamnit! I-I can’t fucking read this!” Jean cried, pushing the book hard across the table and leaning back in his chair. He threaded his fingers through his hair and tugged at it hard, clenching his eyes shut hard. “There has to be a way…” he whispered through his teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of shit is set to go down in the next chapter, and I will hopefully have it up quickly, depending on how work picks up after the holiday. 
> 
> Thank you guys so much for reading. I would love any feedback, criticism, or comments you have. I hope you enjoyed! (Also sorry if my drawings are a dumpster fire...) 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com/).


	9. The Scream of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are tears, and taunts, and struggles, and fights, and Jean realizes this may be the end of the line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer. A lot of things going on in this chapter, so I had a lot to talk about. Again, all the usual warnings apply: foul language, violence, etc... 
> 
> We are nearing the end! Only a couple more chapters left. Enjoy!

Jean – still sat by the kitchen table – kept his eyes trained hard on the cellar door. The sounds of clanging and rustling and growls had resumed unexpectedly while he and Reiner had sat at the kitchen table. He rested his elbows on his thighs, steadily interlacing his fingers and squeezing periodically. It calmed him, even if only slightly in the madness. 

Jean snapped his head up as Reiner stood abruptly, walking towards the back kitchen door. Jean fumbled up after him, eyes flicking nervously between his retreating friend and the hatch of the cellar. 

“Reiner!” He hissed. “Where are you going?” 

Reiner didn’t reply, flinging open the back door quickly and determinedly, but he stopped dead in his tracks before taking a single step past the threshold to the outside. Jean moved to stand behind him, peering slightly over his shoulder through the open doorway, before turning back towards the inside of the cabin… just to be sure that couch was still holding the hatch shut. The couch jolted a bit as something slammed against it, before it was suddenly completely silent in the cabin again.

He could hear Reiner’s breathing become uneasy and shaky, and Jean turned back to peer out into the night air. He didn’t blame Reiner for stopping. As he stared out into the night, it was deathly still, smothered by a thick layer of mist over the ground. The night seemed to breathe and pulse, threatening to choke them if they even dared to tread past the threshold. 

But Reiner’s gaze was focused and firm, staring out across the yard at the small, run-down shed that waited but 25 feet from the door of the cabin. 

“What’s in there?” Jean whispered uneasily. 

“Things that could be helpful…” Reiner whispered back slowly. “Rope… Um, a crow bar… A shovel, maybe… God knows what else… Could be useful though…”

Jean didn’t reply, knowing that Reiner wanted to get whatever he could from the shed. But his friend's trepidation was obvious: the way he gripped the doorframe with both hands, the way his fingernails dug slightly into the wood, the way his shoulders shivered, the way his breath had fluctuated at the sight of the blackness outside the door. 

“Don’t go out there…” Jean said to him, turning his head quickly to look back into the living room at the sound of another loud **CLANG** then silence from the cellar. 

Reiner swallowed thickly, letting out another small huff of air, and Jean saw the way it fogged before his face in the still, cold night. Jean couldn’t help but notice the utter silence of the forest. No crickets, no rustling of animals, no leaves blowing in the breeze, no breeze to ruffle the leaves in the first place. It was dead; completely and utterly dead. And it chilled Jean down to fucking bone, left a cold, unsettled feeling sitting hard in his stomach. 

Reiner began to step forward into the night, but Jean put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He didn’t say anything as Reiner turned to glance at him, he could only shake his head ‘no’ silently, eyes focusing on the desolate night beyond the door. Reiner caught Jean’s wide-eyed gaze, nodding to him slightly as he moved Jean’s hand from his shoulder. But Jean had seen it, had seen the hesitation flash across his golden eyes, before Reiner turned and stepped out into the night. 

The only sound to be heard was the steady crunching of leaves beneath Reiner’s feet as he strode forward towards the shed. Jean watched nervously, his figure becoming less defined in the darkness the further away he moved from the cabin. 

Reiner could barely see in the pale, foggy moonlight as he approached the shed. He tried his best to quell the shake that laced each finger as he fumbled with the latch of the door and opened it hesitantly. He turned his head slowly, eyes connecting with Jean’s silhouette standing still in the doorway. His glance darted to the darkened forest around him before meeting Jean’s gaze again. He could just barely see Jean nod at him slowly in the darkness. Without another thought, he turned and stepped into the shed quietly.

He eyed the shelves carefully, having to squint hard in the darkness. The majority of the shelves would be empty, if he remembered correctly. His eyes hardly wanted to adjust in the pitch, but he could just barely make out the outlines of a couple objects. The old crowbar rested on the middle shelf, and he slid it off, careful to try and not make too much noise while he was out here. 

Reiner gripped the crowbar tightly in his hand, prepared to swing if he needed to as he looked around more. His eyes caught a glimpse of the old axe leaning up against the wall by the door, and he didn’t need to think before grabbing ahold of it. It was lighter than he remembered… This thing had always felt so heavy to him when he was a kid. He remembered coming out with his family, his father teaching him to chop wood, and this axe was always way too big for him. But now, as he held the handle, it felt like a toy. He shook his head and gripped it with the same hand gripping the crowbar as he scanned the dusty shed for anything else useful. 

A large coil of rope rested on the lowest shelf, and he grabbed it without a second thought, shucking it over his shoulder, and grabbing up the line of chain that was underneath it. It rattled and clanked as he drug it from the shoulder and he felt his stomach drop. The night was too silent, he thought, glancing over his shoulder in the darkness. With the shed door half ajar, he could no longer see Jean’s form standing in the doorway of the cabin, and he tried to calm himself, taking a slow, shaking inhale. He moved slowly towards the door again, but stopped short as he moved to exit. 

Beside the door, right about eye level with him was another shelf. He didn’t remember this, perhaps because of the height of the shelf, it would have been too tall for him as a child. He squinted in the darkness, eyes focusing on a medium sized plastic bottle filled with liquid and a medium sized box. 

_Matches…_ Reiner thought to himself as he focused on it, seeing the large red striking strip on the side of the box. 

He didn’t hesitate before grabbing the box and the bottle and exiting the shed. But just as he slid past the threshold, a firm **SLAM** shook the side of shed. Jean was suddenly calling out to him frantically, telling him to run, and he didn’t wait, didn’t even bother to look around before sprinting as fast as his load would allow him towards Jean’s panicked, beckoning figure. Just as he reached the cabin doorway, Jean pulled him inside and slammed the door shut. Reiner stumbled through, some of the items he was carrying falling from his grip onto the floor. He turned to Jean, whose back was pressed against the door and was staring at him with wild, tawny eyes. 

“What was it??” Reiner hissed out. 

Jean shook his head. 

“It was, it was the… the fuckin’ trees, the vines… and, and the, the…” He mumbled out, shaking his head frantically. Reiner began to gather the items back up and move towards the kitchen. Jean followed, eyes still wide and shaking, still murmuring, “It was, it was coming in… closing in…” 

Reiner dropped the things on the kitchen table before he turned around and took Jean by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake. 

“Jean, look at me. It’s okay. It won’t come in.” 

Jean looked up at him pointedly. 

“You don’t know that!” Jean spat out frantically, ready to dart back to the door and bar it off if he needed to. 

“It won’t!” 

“You don’t… You don’t know… How do you know that??” He questioned with a wild gaze, breath coming out uneven and frightened. 

Reiner’s hands moved from his shoulders to cup his cheeks. 

“Because it’s already in here!” The blonde replied, turning Jean’s head to look at the cellar door, still blocked off by the heavy couch. Jean panted quietly, not responding, just letting Reiner cup his face, direct his gaze. He stared at that cellar door – somewhat splintered around the latch, held down merely by the oppressive weight of the furniture atop it – and tried to steady himself. 

“It’s already in here…” Reiner said again, more softly this time, letting his thumb graze over Jean’s cheek, as if to stable him, to comfort him. As if _Jean_ were the one who truly needed the comfort now. 

Jean turned his head back quickly to meet Reiner’s gaze. It took only a second after their eyes locked before Jean calmed himself, realizing almost immediately that it shouldn’t _be_ Reiner having to steady him. It shouldn’t have to _be_ Reiner to be the stable one. It should be _him_. Reiner had lost it all, and yet there he was, standing before Jean like the fucking warrior he always was. 

Jean nodded hard and dropped his eyes, stepping away and easing Reiner’s hands down from his face. There was a moment when he clung on, a moment when his hands almost refused to relinquish their hold on Reiner’s forearms, if only for the reassurance they brought – the feel of someone living and breathing, human and alive. Someone not riddled with death and decay like the rest of the world around him. Not like Armin or Bertholdt, lying cold and lifeless on a bed, locked away in a room to await the rot. Not like his boy, not like his Marco, locked down in that cellar, body inhabited by a fucking skin-walking hell spawn that wanted to talk like him, and walk like him, and puppet him around like the devil’s marionette. 

A shudder ran through Jean’s body as he stepped back from Reiner, moving towards the kitchen table hesitantly. Letting his eyes and hands graze over the various items on the table, he could feel himself gritting his teeth. He made note of the crow bar and the rope and chains. He purposefully avoided the axe, unable to swallow the lump in his throat that formed when his fingers came close to touching it. Reiner moved to his side, looking down at the items too. 

“I just kind of grabbed what I could…” the blonde mumbled. 

“Some could help…” 

“So what exactly do we do?” 

Jean leaned forward, bracing his arms against the table and hanging his head a bit. 

“We’re gunna try and fix this.” 

“Fix it? Fix it how?” 

“Gunna try and… I don’t know… exorcise him?” 

Reiner paused for a moment, biting his lip.

“Jean…” Reiner lifted his hand and rested it against Jean’s shoulder, “Jean, how do you even… how do you even plan to try? We can’t, we can’t read this shit…" He said, gesturing towards the book, "We don’t know that anything we try will even “exorcise” it, or if it will just make things worse.” 

Jean huffed, hanging his head forward some more before slowly straightening his back. 

“I know… But I mean, we can try. This all started with Marco… Maybe it ends with him too.” Jean gritted out slowly. “I… I know a few phrases in Latin… Supposedly for exorcisms… I watch a lot of TV… Power of Christ compels you stuff… It’s…" Reiner cut him off.

"You really think a couple Latin phrases from the movies is gunna help?"

"...It's... It’s worth a shot, Reiner…” 

Jean couldn’t help the way his voice broke as he forced the words out. He hardly believed himself, and yet there he stood, trying to convince Reiner that they somehow stood a chance. He leaned forward and picked up the crowbar, gripping it hesitantly in his palm. 

“But first, we need him up here… We can’t do this on his turf down there.”

**::**

Jean and Reiner didn’t waste much time. Jean flipped open the book back to the page of the exorcism, or at least, what he assumed to be the exorcism. The demonic creature tied to the tree was bound tightly, and around it, there was what appeared to be a pentagram drawn into the ground.

With a quick call to Reiner for help, Jean moved to the living room and grabbed ahold of the arm chair, dragging it into the open space between the living room and the kitchen. 

“Do you have anything to write with? Chalk? Marker? Needs to write thickly...” Jean asked. 

“Let me look, hang on…” Reiner mumbled, moving into the kitchen and rummaging through the drawers and under the sink. He snagged a bag out from underneath the sink and headed back towards the chair that Jean was adjusting. 

“We have a bag of charcoal… Could work… What are you going to use it for?” 

Jean stood and grabbed the book, pointing out the pentagram that was drawn around the base of the tree. 

“We draw it around the chair… It might help… Doubt it will do anything, but it’s worth a shot… Maybe it’s… maybe it’s like a devil’s trap or something, you know?” 

“We should chain the chair down… Odds are he is gunna struggle…” 

“…Smart… Can you do that?” 

Reiner didn’t hesitate before grabbing ahold of the chain and some nails from the toolbox beneath the sink. The two of them worked silently, Reiner looping the chains around the chair as best he could and fastening it down into the floor as Jean did his best to drag the fragile coals along the floor in the shape of a circle and star. There were a few symbols in the strange language written in the book at the points of the stars and Jean did his best to mimic them. As Reiner finished nailing the chains into the floor, he stood up beside Jean, right hand filthy from the coal, left hand barely balancing the book. 

“I don’t know how well it will hold,” Reiner started, “but it’s better than nothing…” 

Jean nodded silently, closing the book slowly and setting it in the kitchen. He grabbed ahold of the crow bar again, as Reiner followed behind him, grabbing up the rope and a spare flashlight from the closet. The two of them moved wordlessly into the living room, standing beside the couch that felt like it was the only barrier between them and the depths below that held the _thing_ that wore Marco’s flesh. 

“So what exactly is our plan?” 

“Go down, incapacitate, drag him up here, tie him up and… do whatever we can…” 

Jean swallowed thickly as Reiner put his hand on his shoulder. They stared at the latch – the wood splintered around it from the brunt of Marco’s impacts. It was quiet down there now. Jean tried to quell the shaking that had suddenly settled over him, but he couldn’t help the way he quivered, hand clenching around the crowbar, trying to prepare himself. But he knew he wasn’t ready… He would never be ready to see Marco like this, he would never be ready to fight him, to beat him down… to do… whatever he needed to do.

Reiner squeezed his shoulder. 

“Jean, can you do this?” 

“…Yeah.” 

“And if it doesn’t work?” 

“…” 

“Jean, if this doesn’t work… Can you… can you do what needs to be done?” 

Jean clenched his teeth, trying his best to push down the lump that was growing in his throat. But it wouldn’t go away. He knew what Reiner was asking him. He felt his lip tremble, trying his best not to think about what might happen, trying to ignore the very real fact that this probably wouldn’t work ,and that he might have to finish it. He knew what Reiner was asking… He knew that Reiner wanted to know that if this didn’t work, could he… could he kill Marco. Could he kill Marco if it came down to it? 

Jean felt a tear slip down his cheek as he let out a shaky breath. Gripping the crow bar hard in his hands, he nodded slowly. 

“Yes…”

**::**

Reiner heaved the couch to the side, revealing the splintered hatch beneath their feet. With a deep breath, the blonde leaned forward and undid the latch, lifting the cellar door up slowly until it was open fully.

The two of them stared down into the silent darkness. Jean listened hard, trying to hear even the slightest rustle from beneath them, but it was quiet. The tremble that shook its way through his arms and shoulders was no longer one of emotion or sadness… This was fear, it was dread. And Jean knew it. His stomach was coiled so tightly, tied up in knots that he felt he might throw up. 

Reiner turned to him, holding out the rope. 

“Give me the crow bar. You take the rope.” Reiner whispered quickly, gesturing for Jean to take the rope. 

“Why?” Jean mouthed.

“Because I think I’ve got a better chance of fighting him off than you do…” 

Jean nodded swiftly, exchanging the items hurriedly before a soft scuffle from below them caused him to snap his gaze back down into the depths of the cellar. Reiner flipped on the flashlight and beckoned for Jean to follow him. Jean couldn’t help but admire the way Reiner plowed forward, as if he had nothing left to fear. 

It reminded Jean painfully that Reiner probably felt that way – nothing left to lose, not since Bertholdt had gone cold. But Jean couldn’t think that way, instead he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs as if he were about to dive into the depths of the ocean, as he took the first step down into the darkness. 

Jean felt as if the pitch swallowed him whole, enveloping him in a suffocating layer of blackness, even with the beam of the flashlight illuminating bits and pieces of the cellar below. Each stair groaned beneath their weight, threatening to splinter and crack below their feet, and Jean had no doubt that Marco knew they were there. They reached the bottom, bathed only in the ambient light dripping down the stairs from the living room. 

They both heard the shuffling of feet behind them, and they spun quickly, shining the light at the source of the sound, but finding nothing. Reiner passed Jean the flashlight steadily, leaving both hands to grip the crowbar, ready and waiting for the ball to drop. 

Another rustle and clang of a falling object sounded from their left. Jean tried to catch the movement, but again, the beam of the flashlight found nothing. He breathed unevenly, trying his best to calm himself, before suddenly, from the darkness in front of them, a soft, gentle voice – Marco’s voice – began to sing. 

“We lay my love and I… beneath the weeping willow…” 

Jean shook his head slowly, letting out a huff, trying his best to shine the light where it might be of some assistance to them. 

“Marco…” Jean said, trying to hide the quiver in his voice. 

“Show yourself…” Reiner demanded. 

Marco giggled from in front of them, but it wasn’t his voice anymore. It was scratching and scathing, layered over with what sounded like the voices of hundreds of inhuman things, and when it sang again, it felt as if it came from all around them. 

“But now alone I lie...” it cried out to them. 

Reiner had the crowbar ready, poised to swing it forward if Marco dare lunge at them. But it ultimately didn't matter, because the jump didn’t come from in front of them; rather, it was Jean who felt the full force of the impact from behind them. 

Marco’s form slammed out of the darkness into Jean’s back, toppling him forward and pinning him against the dirt and concrete. The flashlight went skidding, the light flickering as it bounced along the floor. Jean could feel the grime rubbing into the gash on his cheek, stinging and tearing against the floor as Marco’s weight forced him down. He flailed his arms, frantically trying to turn, to push himself up, to do _something_ to get Marco away from him, but he couldn't. One arm was tangled in the rope that had been slung over his shoulder, the other held down hard by Marco's brutal grip. 

Suddenly though, Marco’s oppressive weight was gone, toppling off to the side as Reiner kicked at him roughly. But even as Jean tried to scramble up, Marco didn’t waste a second, on all fours he lunged over Jean, tackling Reiner back down to the floor. The crowbar slid from Reiner’s hand, clanging to the ground as Reiner himself stumbled back with Marco bearing down on him. There was a loud “smack” of what Jean could only assume was Reiner’s head hitting the floor. Jean couldn’t see well in the darkness, the flashlight long since forgotten, but he could hear the sounds and see the silhouettes scuffling and struggling in the light from the living room. He heard the groaning and snarling, heard a fist connect with flesh, heard the sickening wet sound of what he could only assume was blood. 

Jean didn’t think before he scrambled to his feet, grabbing the crowbar and swinging as hard as his tired form would let him. It connected with a sickening thunk against the side of Marco’s head and he saw his form stumble and fall to the ground. 

Reiner fumbled and sat up, quickly poising himself to be ready to hold Marco down should he decide to move again. Jean dropped the crowbar from his shaking hands, stumbling down to one knee as he stared at Marco’s limp form on the ground, panic suddenly flooding over him. Reiner moved and knelt by Marco’s side before lifting his head to meet Jean’s frantic gaze. He nodded at Jean curtly as he spoke. 

“It’s okay, Jean. It’s okay.” 

“God what did I…” 

“He’s fine. Out cold. This is what we need, give me the rope.” 

Jean handed it over wordlessly, hands still trembling beyond his control as Reiner wrapped as much as he could around Marco before ushering Jean to help him lift him a bit to get it all the way around. Jean hesitated before lifting Marco’s limp form up, not even watching as Reiner wound the rope around his torso, his hands, his feet, tying it off as best he could. 

“Help me, Jean, we need to get him upstairs…” 

It was then that Jean seemed to come down from the haze. Shaking his head slowly, he could vaguely see blood dripping down the side of Reiner’s neck from the back of his head. Jean reached out to touch it before Reiner moved away from his touch. 

“I’m fine, I’ll look at it upstairs, help me.” Reiner groaned out, pained. 

Jean breathed deeply, nodding at him, and moving around to grab Marco’s bound feet as Reiner hoisted him up by the shoulders. As they stumbled up the stairs, Jean couldn’t help but stare at Reiner – bloodied and weary, tired and worn down to the bone, and yet still trudging forward. Jean didn’t know how he did it. Jean didn’t understand it; he had seen the fight leave Reiner’s body, had watched the last bit of willpower seep from his eyes, and yet there he stood, heaving Marco’s limp form up the stairs and down into the chair as if it was the only thing in the world he could think to do. 

He was a warrior. Perhaps he always would be. 

Jean shook his head once they had him in the chair, moving to grab some of the paracord from the kitchen table as well as some of the extra rope. He gave the excess rope to Reiner, watching as he wound it around Marco’s limp body and around the chair, securing him tightly against the furniture at as many points as possible. Jean crouched in front of him, making sure to wrap the paracord around Marco’s already bound hands. Just in case. 

Jean peered up at Marco, his head hung limply forward, face slack. He looked peaceful, despite the blood and cuts and dirt… This was the Marco Jean knew. Not pained, not suffering, but rather his face calm and resting. Jean shook his head; he couldn’t think about this. He stood just as Reiner finished tying off a few knots around Marco and the chair. 

When the blonde stood, Jean saw him waver, a hand reaching up to touch the bloody patch on the back of his head. Jean moved quickly to his side as he began to stumble a bit. 

“Jeez, dude, come on, you need to sit.” 

Jean wrapped Reiner’s arm over his shoulder and helped walk him over to a kitchen chair a few feet away. 

“You okay?” 

Reiner groaned and nodded with a huff. 

“Just dizzy… Smacked it pretty good down there.” 

“Hang on…” 

Jean took one more glance at Marco, still slumped limply in the chair. The scene was a fucking mess. The living room chair, with droplets of drying blood on it, was chained down to the floor haphazardly, a fucking messy pentagram drawn in charcoal around it, Marco’s body – torn up, pale and bloody, covered in gashes with their sutures ripped out – was collapsed in it like a dead man, tied against it like a rabid animal that might awake at any moment. Reiner sitting in the kitchen chair with a hand covering the back of his head where it bled slowly soaking his short buzz cut, staining his fingers. What a fucking wreck, a fucking nightmare of a scene. How had they wound up here? 

Jean shook his head, beginning to rummage through the drawers in search of something –a bag, a towel, something, anything. He found a lone, old ziplock at the back of one of the drawers and fished it out, moving towards the freezer and grabbing a couple ice cubes out and dropping them in the bag. He was back at Reiner’s side quickly, slipping the bag into his hand and pressing it against the back of his head. Reiner hissed at the touch of it.

“Hold that there… It’ll help…” 

Reiner nodded, holding the ice against his head with the bag with a grimace as Jean stood up again. 

A small groan from the other chair caught his attention and he whipped his head around to look at Marco’s stirring form. Jean didn’t move for a moment, watching carefully as Marco shifted, head lifting slowly and groaning out in pain. Marco looked around for a moment before his eyes settled on his bindings. Jean could hear the whimpers, the sounds of scared, nervous groans as he began to struggle against the rope. It sounded almost… sounded almost like he was… crying. 

Jean lifted his chin a bit before striding forward steadily into Marco’s line of sight. He tried to hold himself high, tried to keep his shoulders back and chin up as he stared down at Marco. When Marco caught sight of him, and he began to breathe heavily, frantic little whimpers and cries slipping past his lips. 

“J-Jean?” He stuttered out nervously. “Jean wh-what’s going on?” 

It was his voice but it couldn’t be him. Jean could feel his lip quiver as he stared down, trying his best to keep his face placid and cold. The cries kept coming, Marco staring up at him with pleading, frightened eyes. 

“Jean, what’re you doing?” 

Marco struggled against the rope again, dropping his head to look at his bound legs and hands too. He shimmied his shoulders against the restraints and lifted his head up. Jean saw the tears begin to slip down his cheeks from his wide, bambi eyes. And there was a moment when Jean felt his resolve break, staring down at the struggling, terrified figure bound against this chair. There was a moment when Jean began to question. 

This was Marco – those were Marco’s eyes, Marco’s tears, Marco’s voice, Marco’s broken cries – but it couldn’t be. This was a game _it_ was playing with him, and he couldn’t bend to it. 

“Jean… Jean! What are you doing? Please, Jean, talk to me, it’s me! What’s going on? Wh-why am I tied up?!” Marco shouted frantically at him, tears still falling from his big, brown eyes. 

“Stop.” Jean said softly, still glaring down at him. 

“St-stop? Stop.. what? I don’t understand. Jean, please, what is going on? Why am I tied up? Why does my he-head hurt?” 

“Stop it, or I’ll gag you.” Jean replied, trying his best to hide the quiver in his voice. 

“Oh god…” Marco sobbed out, tilting his head back and clenching his eyes shut as he struggled against his binds again. Jean could see the pain etched in his face, could see the fear. When his eyes opened again, they were still wet, lashes clinging together as another tear threatened to fall. He stared up at Jean with those frightened, pleading eyes, and Jean just couldn’t look at them. 

Jean turned his head away quickly, moving away from Marco towards Reiner again, whose eyes were shut, still holding the bag of ice against his skull. Jean placed a hand on Reiner’s shoulder, who barely cracked his eye to look at him. Jean mouthed a short “are you okay?” at him, and Reiner nodded slowly before letting his eyes close again. He heard Marco shuffle again, letting out a couple other small, scared whimpers. But Jean wouldn’t look at him. 

He moved towards the table and grabbed the book, as well as some extra pieces of rope… Just in case… Striding back towards the whimpering Marco, Jean forced himself to swallow, taking a deep breath to let it calm him. He stood in front of Marco again, still wriggling against the ropes that bound him and weeping like a frightened boy. 

“Jean, _please_!” He begged, staring up at him. But Jean just shook his head. “Whatever you’re planning to do, please, _please_ …” He paused, inhaling a quick, desperate breath between his sobs. 

“STOP!” Jean screamed at him suddenly, watching as Marco flinched hard under his words. But Marco didn’t speak, his sobs the only sounds he made, his whole body trembling as Jean stared down at him with as hard a gaze as he could manage. 

Jean leaned down and set the book and the rope down on the floor, before he bent his knees to crouch before Marco. He made sure to keep his distance, though, only lifting his head to glance at Reiner or stare at Marco. 

“Jean, _please_ , god, it’s _me_ …” The tears were fucking pouring down Marco’s face, cleaning small streaks across his dirty cheeks as they fell. 

“I said to fucking stop!” Jean cried out again, before inhaling slowly through his nose and calming his voice steadily, trying to quell the quiver in his lips as he shook his head. “You aren’t him.” He hissed out slowly, each word slipping past his teeth with an angry, broken determination. 

Marco said nothing. Jean shook his head again, trying to hold in his own tears as he stood up fully. 

“You aren’t him.” 

Marco breathed unevenly, staring up at Jean still with a petrified look of confusion. He turned his head quickly to look at Reiner, as if looking for some support, but found none from the other man. He whipped his head back to look at Jean, as if imploring him, begging him to please, please, _please_ recognize him. Jean bit his lip as he caught Marco’s gaze. 

“Jean… Baby... Don’t do th-”

“NO! Stop!” Jean screamed out, no longer trying to hold back the tears, his whole body shaking as he stared down at Marco, no… down at this _thing_ that had taken Marco. He sniffled as his nose filled, the tears flowing down his trembling cheeks. “You don’t get to call me that.” He hissed harshly. “You don’t… get… to fucking call me that.” Jean let out a soft sob. “Only he does.” 

Jean watched the shift like it was fucking sorcery. The tears streaming down Marco’s face stopped instantly, his pained expression disappeared into a flat, placid glare, lips in a tight line, eyes dull and almost _bored_ , as if he were fucking tired of Jean. 

“Why don’t you love me, Jean?” Marco asked softly, voice flat and frank, but his eyes and brows expressive, feigning an angst that Jean had to remind himself not to believe. 

Jean didn’t reply, merely staring down at him as Marco continued. 

“All I ever wanted was for you to just be there for me, and you couldn’t even do that.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Why were you never there for me? Are you happy? Are you proud? Proud that you ran away and abandoned me?” 

“I said _shut up_ …” Jean whispered softly, feeling his voice break. 

“This is your fault, you know that, right?” Marco said again, in that sweet voice of his. 

“No.” 

“Yes. If you had just been a good person and stuck by me, none of this would have happened. Armin’s dead because of you! Are you proud? What does it feel like? To know you’re a killer?” Marco turned his head quickly to look at Reiner, whose eyes were now opened slightly, watching the scene unfold. 

“Maybe Reiner can tell you…” Marco said. “What do you say, Reiner? How does it feel? How does it feel to be a murderer?” 

Reiner didn’t reply but Jean could see him begin to shake, his free hand beginning to clench tightly. 

“How did it feel when you stabbed Bertholdt? Did it feel good? I bet it did…” 

Marco smiled softly, nodding encouragingly, as a small tear streaked its way down Reiner’s cheek. 

“How did it feel when he died?” 

“That’s enough!” Jean screamed out, re-commanding Marco’s attention. “You. Aren’t. Him. _You_ killed them.” 

Marco slowly turned his head back to face Jean, an annoyed look on his face.

“You aren’t as stupid as you look, pretty boy.” The thing in Marco’s skin jeered at him with a smirk. 

Jean didn’t acknowledge it. Hearing Reiner groan and stand slowly, shuffling over to stand by Jean’s side in front of the chair. Marco smiled up at the two of them – a nasty grin, filled with a dirty malice that had no fucking place on Marco’s beautiful face. Reiner, holding the ice against the back of his skull, looked down at Marco with as stern a face as he could manage. But Marco merely grinned. 

“I’m gunna rip your soul out.” He said sweetly, so sweetly, in Marco’s gentle, lilting voice. He began to laugh then, voice tearing and breaking through his fit of giggles, sounds overlapping like the voices of Hell itself, before he stopped suddenly. His eyes glazed over with red. 

“I’ll rip your fucking soul out!” Marco screamed out suddenly. “I will… _kill_ you. I’ll kill you, pretty boy, and I’ll kill you too, blondie, just like I killed your stupid whore boyfriend. He’s a fun one to torture, by the way. That kind, gentle soul of his tastes so fuckin’ sweet.” 

Reiner dropped the bag of ice quickly, stepping forward suddenly, fist reared back and ready to punch, but Jean stopped him before he could. 

“ _Don’t_ listen to it.” Jean whispered in Reiner’s ear. He could feel Reiner shaking – anger and fear and pain coursing through every fiber of his body. 

Jean turned to look at Marco – his face twisted and grinning up hard at the two of them. Every couple of seconds he would twitch, face faltering, neck cricking hard enough that it sounded like bones breaking, before it would right itself. He breathed heavily through his teeth, small growls and snarls seeping past his curled, angry lips as small droplets of saliva and dirty, black liquid dribbled down from the corner of his mouth. 

Jean swallowed thickly, trying like hell to make the lump in his throat go away, trying to quell the painful, sickening twist that had built up in his stomach, but it wouldn’t go away. He bent down and picked up the book and the rope, cradling the book in his arms as he passed the rope off to Reiner. 

“Aw, what do you plan to do with that?” Marco asked, his voice soft and sweet again as he eyed the flesh-covered book in Jean’s grip. 

Jean said nothing, opening the book slowly to the page with the drawing of the exorcism. 

“You really think that’s gunna work, pretty boy?” 

His eyes glancing over the text, he felt a sudden rage build up again, rage that he couldn’t read this. So angry that the best he had was a memory bank of Latin exorcism phrases from movies and TV. Angry… because he couldn’t look down at this thing in Marco’s body and say that _yes_ , he _did_ think it would work. 

Jean cleared his throat softly, closing his eyes and trying his best to remember what phrases he could… 

“Um. In nomine Dei Patris… Exorcizo te, spiritus immunde… In nomine Dei Patris, et Filii…”, Jean began hesitantly, trying his best not to stumble over the words. He was sure they were wrong, was sure they were out of order... But he could see the shift in Marco’s expression, suddenly dropping from mocking and taunting to concerned and anxious in the bat of an eye. 

“What are you doing?” Marco asked harshly. Jean let out a quick huff, continuing his words as best he could.

“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde. Uh… Suum vocare… dignatus est ut… fiat templum Dei vivi…”

“Stop!” Marco said harshly, voice booming. Jean startled, but kept his eyes trained on Marco’s face as he continued. 

“Um… In nomine Dei Patris, et in nomine Jesu Christi Filii ejus, et in Spiritus Sancti…” 

Marco began to scream, shouting out, thrashing his head back and side to side as he cried. Jean’s eyes widened, as he stumbled over the words. They weren’t in the right order, he was sure, but maybe it was enough. This was actually working… 

“Exorcizo te, spiritus immunde, descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei…” 

“STOP! MOTHERFUCKER! **STOP**!” Marco screamed out, pulling hard at his restraints, his body lashing and thrashing about, his voice a pinnacle of agony. 

“In nomine Dei Patris,” Jean continued, more force behind his words now as he spoke, “descedas ab hoc plasmate Dei, Dominus noster ad uh, ad templum sanctum.” 

“FUCKING STOP!” 

Marco was squirming and struggling so hard in the chair, his movements so erratic and rapid that Jean's eyes could barely track them. It was fucking inhuman. Marco threw his head back to shout, his voice was strained and overlapped as he screamed and thrashed against his restraints. The rope was rubbing his wrists raw from Jean could tell, other pieces of it grating against the open wounds on Marco's body, causing more blood to drip and smear across his skin, but Jean wouldn't stop. He glanced back at Reiner, who had backed away a few steps, before he continued. 

“Exorcizo te, spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei Patris omni-” Jean started up again, his confidence lifting as he spoke, before all of a sudden, Marco cut him off. Jean's words ceased abruptly at the sudden, unwarranted and booming laughter than was pouring from Marco’s mouth. 

“AHAHAHAHAHA!” Marco roared out, his voice overbearing and taunting as he lowered his head to glare at Jean, who could only stare at him in silence. The booming laughter turned quickly into a fit of giggles as Marco looked at him with a sick little grin on his face. 

“You stupid motherfucker.” Marco hissed through his fits of giggles. “Did you really think your jumbled bullshit Latin would do _anything_ to me?” 

Jean shook his head in sheer disbelief… It couldn’t be. 

“But that was _so_ cute, sugar. Do it again! Come on, one more time, one more time!” 

“No…” Jean whispered again, his grip loosening on the book in his hands as he stepped backwards toward Reiner. 

The book fell to the floor with a loud thunk as Jean backed up, eyes never leaving Marco’s face. He felt Reiner’s hands on his arms, holding his trembling form, all while Marco giggled and laughed, head thrashing and cracking side to side manically. 

“Jean,” Reiner started in a trembling voice, “that’s it, we have to end this.” 

“I can’t.” Jean cried out, turning around in Reiner’s grip, staring up at him frantically. “I can’t.” 

“We have to.” 

Marco let out a deep, rasping growl suddenly, Reiner and Jean turning quickly to stare at him as he smiled, before he clenched his eyes shut and screamed out. A scream so vile and deep and guttural that it shook the entire cabin, the very foundation trembling beneath their feet. The wind roared out as Marco shrieked, the pitch changing quickly. Jean’s hands flung up to his ears, at the sudden, piercing screech that seemed to sound out, echoing through every bone in his body. He and Reiner both dropped to their knees at the sound, Jean felt as if his head might burst from the sound, felt his ears might bleed, could feel his body shaking and burning in the chaos. 

Without warning, the scream stopped, but from the silence, a sudden impacting force was upon the two of them. It slammed against their bodies, pounding against Jean’s stomach, and sending them hurling backwards, the two of them crashing roughly into the back wall of the cabin across from the still smiling Marco.

Jean felt his head crack back against the wood at the impact, breath leaving his body, heard Reiner’s body fall and hit the floor along with his own. There was a moment when all he could do was lie there. There was a buzzing in his hears, a deafening ring that seemed to drown out everything else. His body was heavy, shoulder twinged from the fall, back gnarled and pained from the impact, his head foggy and throbbing with pain, eyes threatening to slip closed. There was a haze that seemed to settle over him as he lifted his head uneasily. Marco’s giggling was slowly coming back into focus as his blurry eyes landed on Reiner’s limp form lying on the floor beside him. 

“Re-Reiner…” He groaned out weakly, voice hoarse and weak from the blow. “Reiner…” he tried again, but the other man didn’t stir. He turned his head slowly, his gaze landing on Marco, struggling against his restraints, but still somehow bound to the chair. 

“Reiner…” Jean forced out again, hoping to god Reiner would just move a little, would get up, lift his head, _something_ , but he didn’t. 

With a pained groan, Jean pushed his legs up underneath him, balancing haphazardly on his hands and knees. He could taste blood in his mouth – a sick, vile, metallic taste that stung his tastebuds. He felt his stomach twist, threatening to expunge the bile from it, but Jean swallowed hard, slowly dragging his leg up underneath himself to push to stand. He could feel Marco’s eyes on him as he trudged forward, moving across the room with slow, painful steps. 

“Give up, you stupid fuck. Just accept your fucking death.” Marco hissed from behind him as he hobbled his way towards the kitchen. He glanced back at Marco, straining hard against the ropes that bound him, his lips snarling, thrashing hard periodically against the chair, rattling the chains that held it to the floor. Jean turned away, eyes falling on the crowbar on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, trying not to stumble, but he stopped himself short before grabbing it. His eyes focused instead on the axe that lay forgotten on the kitchen table. 

With a pained groan, he straightened up, kicking the crowbar into the kitchen and hobbling towards the table with a fixated determination. Jean gripped the wooden handle tightly with his right hand, feeling the weight of it as he lifted it. It wasn’t as heavy as he had expected, but it wasn’t light either. Turning back towards Marco, he glanced briefly at Reiner’s still unconscious form lying on the ground, before he moved his attention back to Marco. 

He trudged forward, the axe in one hand, the other hand clutching at his stomach. It ached and throbbed from the force of the impact, like his back and his head, but he ignored it. He clenched his eyes shut before stepping fully in front of Marco. He lifted the axe a bit so he could grab it with his free hand, gripping it now in both hands, he stared down at Marco. The bastard skin-walker, still smiling up at him with that sick, demented, filthy smile, as if it knew that no matter what Jean did, things would never be the same. 

“What are you gunna do, huh? Hack me up?” Marco lilted out to him, tilting his head softly as he looked up at Jean. “Just gunna kill me and run, then? That’s what you do best, isn’t it? Run away. Gunna just leave your precious little Marco to die. Wouldn't be the first time you ditched him.” 

“No.” Jean said forcefully, trying to ignore the small tear that slid down his cheek as he strode forward, moving around the chair to stand behind it. 

“I want him… to have peace…” Jean whispered through his clenched teeth. 

Marco tilted his head back to look up at Jean standing behind him, that sickening grin still on his face. 

“Peace? No peace.” He snarled with a brief shake of his head. 

Jean felt another tear slip down his cheek at the words, before he clenched his eyes shut. Without another thought, Jean lunged forward, hooking the hard handle of the axe under Marco’s chin and pulling hard with both hands, forcing the pressure unflinchingly against Marco’s windpipe.

**::**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear not! It isn't over yet. Don't be too down. I promise, there is more to come. 
> 
> Chapter 10 will be up very soon. Thanks for your time. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


	10. The Dark Before the Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things always get darker before the dawn, but the dawn inevitably comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, last big chapter before our Epilogue! Hang with me, guys!

Jean’s arms shook and trembled as he held hard onto the handle of the axe. Marco struggled against his bonds, sputtering and choking as Jean held the bruising force against his throat. He tried hard to lift his arms, to separate his hands, to claw at the pressure against his neck, but the ropes held him firm. 

With wide eyes, Jean stared down at Marco’s dirty, matted hair, trying to forget about the person that was currently under his hold. Jean tried to quell the tears that were streaming down his cheeks, but he couldn’t. _This had to be done_ , he told himself. _There’s no other way…_

Marco’s struggles became slower, less powerful, but Jean wouldn’t let up. As he stared down, Marco’s head began to shift, even under the pressure of the axe handle. He tilted his head back as much as it would allow, and looked up Jean. 

The look in his eyes was one Jean swore he’d never forget. Jean watched as Marco’s eyes changed before him, eyes shifting and fading from a dramatic red and orange, fading, fading back into a glistening brown. He watched as they changed, morphing into a full, deep brown, his cheeks littered in freckles, even under the grime. Jean was fixated on this look: there was a pained fondness on Marco’s face as he stared up at Jean. And he didn’t look afraid. Jean couldn’t help the grimace that crossed his face as he choked out a sob, still not letting up the pressure of the handle against his throat. But he couldn’t help the way his arms shook, muscles trembling beneath the strain and agony of what he was doing. 

Jean shook his head slowly, watched as a small tear dripped down from his chin onto Marco’s forehead. 

Marco didn’t jolt as the drop hit him. His struggles had all but ceased. But as he looked up at Jean, the corners of his mouth began to tilt upward ever so slightly. Jean let out a shaky breath as Marco smiled softly up at him. And Jean hated it. Hated it because at that moment, he couldn’t tell whose smile it was. He hated himself. Staring down at Marco’s small, gentle grin, Jean wanted to believe it was truly his. But this thing had controlled his flesh for what seemed like an eternity. And Jean didn’t know anymore. So he held tighter, pulling the handle harder, hearing only the sound of the blood coursing through his veins, the steady ba-bump, ba-bump in his ears. He gripped hard, exerting an extra burst of force against Marco’s neck as the other man’s struggles steadied, steadied, slowed, weakened, and stopped entirely. Jean watched a small trail of black liquid at the corner of Marco’s mouth, it began to drip just as Marco’s eyes began to close, that smile only leaving his face when it had gone entirely lax. 

There was a moment when Jean didn’t let go, even in the silence, even after the struggling had stopped. Afraid to ease up the pressure, afraid that the moment he relinquished his hold, those eyes would snap open, red and angry, mouth lunging for him to swallow him down to hell. 

But as the seconds ticked by, his grip on the handle began to waver, fingers trembling and loosening as Marco just laid there, unresponsive. Suddenly, his hands began to shake: a frantic, desperate quiver as he relaxed his hold on the axe. It clattered down to the floor with a loud thunk, but Jean could only look down at _Marco_ lying in the chair, limp and lifeless. Jean edged around the chair, stumbling down to his knees in front of him, hands shaking as they hovered over Marco’s mutilated legs. 

He rested his hands down softly, before pressing more firmly, unable to help the way his fingers began to grip Marco’s thighs like they were the only things holding him up. They were warm under his hands, but when he looked up at Marco, he was pale and unmoving, head still tilted back against the chair, a dark bruise forming along his throat… chest not moving. 

The only movement Jean could see was the steady drip…drip…drip… of that oil black liquid slipping from the corner of Marco’s mouth, running down his chin, dripping onto his shoulder. 

“Marco?” Jean tried to whisper, voice sticking hard to his tongue. 

But Marco didn’t respond, didn’t move. The only sound that constant drip…drip…drip. Jean felt the cry building up in his chest, fingers fumbling suddenly with the rope as he tried like hell to hold it in. Frantically he undid the knots. Freeing his hands and feet, trying to suppress the cry that was already whimpering its way out of his throat as he unwrapped the rope from around Marco’s body. Part of him knew he should be more reticent, more cautious and wary before untying him, because this could go wrong, it could backfire spectacularly. But there was another part of him, another part that shouted from the darkness in his head, a part that simply _knew_. A part that knew it was done. 

As the rope unwound, Marco slumped over limply, collapsing haphazardly over the arm of the chair as Jean caught him, pulling him out of it and down to the floor with him. Jean hauled him as best he could, further into his lap, barely supporting himself as he tried to sit up. But he cradled Marco none the less, eyes darting between the limp body in his arms and Reiner’s unconscious form a couple feet away from them. Marco’s head hung lifelessly across his arm, body pale and limp, skin growing ashen beneath the dirt and grime and blood, lips fading to blue, marred only by the smear of the black fluid seeping past them slowly. Jean ran a trembling hand across his face, trying to block out the horrid sound of the steady drip…drip…drip as the oily pitch liquid dropped down onto the floorboards. 

“M-Marco…” He whispered with a brief shake of Marco’s torso, staring down expectantly at Marco’s empty face, as if he might open his eyes, kiss Jean’s cheek, tell him it was all okay. But he didn’t respond at all. 

And Jean couldn’t hold it in anymore. The cry that had swollen in his chest, that had leaked unwittingly past his teeth in breathy whimpers sounded out in full. 

He screamed out, wailing Marco’s name into the silent cabin, screaming incomprehensible sounds until his chest hurt, until his lungs gave out, until the very breath inside him was gone and he was left a wheezing, distraught mess. 

Jean clung to him, heaving his lifeless form as close to him as he could. Fingers threaded in his hair, he held Marco against his chest, looking around the room frantically. He looked at Reiner’s form, lying still on the ground. Jean could see the slow rise and fall of his chest, and he knew he should let go, knew he should move away from Marco, help Reiner, help get the two of them out of here. They could get out – the rains had been stopped for hours, the grounds drying up. They could make it out. Could send someone back, get the… get the bodies. 

Jean stared down at Marco’s sweet face, so calm and peaceful, tranquil in a way that Jean hadn’t seen for the duration of this weekend, serene in a way that Jean hadn’t seen since he had left him over a year before. Jean felt like something had reached deep into his chest, gripping his heart hard enough to make it burst. And he wanted it to. He wanted it to break. He had never hoped to not feel before, had never wished to be free of his emotion until now.

 _Let me die here…_ Jean thought to himself. _Just let me die here, holding him._

He had long given up stopping his own tears, feeling as they poured down his face, eyes burning, the gash on his cheek stinging with every salty drop that fell. Vaguely, he could hear Reiner stirring slightly, but he felt he couldn’t move, locked into place with Marco in his arms. He ran his fingers across his cheek again before pulling down the sleeve of his shirt slightly to wipe at his face, clearing away some of the dirt and blood. He forced a smile, eyes still wet with tears, as he rubbed some of the grime off Marco’s face, clearing it to show his skin. But that oily black liquid wouldn’t stop its constant drip, no matter how many times he tried to rub it away. 

Jean clenched his eyes shut, tilting his head back slowly, tightening his grip on Marco’s form as he did. He looked back down at him and ran his fingers slowly through Marco’s hair before slowly, lowering Marco back down onto the floor. He laid him down as gently as he could, trying his best not to disturb the silence of the room, letting Marco rest. He didn’t adjust his position, letting his arms lie out as they fell, letting Marco’s head face away from him on the ground. 

With a forced push, he edged himself back away from Marco’s form. Sat now between Marco’s lifeless body and Reiner, all Jean could do was pull his knees close to his chest and shake. He tried his best not to sob, instead letting the tears fall silently, and he wondered if he might ever run out. He had heard it plenty, crying so much that one had no more to shed, but it felt now as if they may never cease. Jean closed his eyes and buried his head against his knees, trying to block out the steady drip…drip…drip…drip… that he knew was trickling from Marco’s lips. 

_Just let me die._ he thought in the heavy silence.

Just vaguely, he could hear Reiner stirring again, a small groan, a small rustle against the floor, but he couldn’t bear to look up. He didn’t have anything left. Even if they got out, what would it matter? What kind of life would they have out there now? His only comfort was the peace… the peace he had seen on Marco’s face as the life slipped away from him. 

What right did he have to leave now? 

_None._ he thought. _None at all._

He heard a small whimper sound out, but would not lift his head. Reiner needed him, he knew it. Knew he should go to his side. But he couldn’t budge. Couldn’t bring himself to care anymore. 

It was quiet for god only knows how long, and Jean would have gladly buried himself there if it meant escape from this fucking nightmare. It was only the sound of sudden retching that jolted his head upward. A sound of pained, guttural, throaty heaving that jarred him, raising his head quickly at the sound. It hadn’t come from Reiner, Jean realized quickly, noting how Reiner still laid resting silently on the ground. Instead, Jean could only focus on Marco’s form – it still lay on his back, with his head facing away from Jean, but it… it was twitching slightly. Chest convulsing minutely, small, gurgling noises bubbling up through it. 

Jean eyed the axe, sitting beside the chair where he had dropped it. He knew he should crawl to it, knew he should grab it while he had the chance, but he couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, eyes trained on the twitching body in front of him. 

With a hesitant shuffle, Jean inched his way over towards the axe, eyes still focusing on Marco’s body. It was jolting and twitching still, those horrid gagging noises sputtering up out of his mouth. He glanced over at the axe again, he was close to it, could probably lean over and grab it. But another painful sounding retching noise recommended his attention. He watched as Marco flipped hard onto his side, still facing away from Jean. Without thinking Jean reached out, grabbed the axe, and forced himself to his feet, holding the axe at the ready. 

Marco heaved again on his side, before pushing up quickly to his hands and knees, retching and gagging from deep within him; inhuman noises coming from his mouth as he sputtered and choked. Jean’s gaze moved to Reiner, who was beginning to stir more, shifting around and starting to try to push himself up. But he didn’t linger, as Marco’s form began to shake hard, bones cracking and snapping as joints twitched, fingernails digging hard with a scrape into the wood beneath him. 

Jean held the axe high, waiting. 

That dark, black liquid that had been seeping from the corner of Marco’s mouth was now dripping in full, forming a pool of blackness below Marco on the floorboards. He heaved again, sputtering and choking violently as the oil suddenly _burst_ from his mouth, splattering hard on the floor, pouring out of him like someone had opened a hose. The sounds were horrid, as if the liquid itself were _tearing_ its way through Marco’s decimated body. 

Jean couldn’t help but grimace as he watched, wishing he could simply turn away. He felt ill, watching this thick, viscous oil heaved its way past Marco’s lips. He gripped the axe harder, ready to swing. 

Marco’s heaves didn’t let up, the black bile pouring from his mouth, splattering onto the floor in steaming plops as his arms wavered and shook, threatening to give out under his weight. He retched until there was a pool beneath him, oil black and opaque, thick and hot, with splotches of red mixed into it. Jean watched as it slowed, as Marco’s gags steadied and quelled, the blackness now only dribbling messily from Marco’s mouth. His fingernails were still dug into the floor boards, and as he shifted slightly, he dragged them through the wood, scraping loudly and painfully. 

There was a moment of silence; Jean still holding the axe above him, ready to drop it down, Marco still on his hands and knees, shoulder shaking as a few more drops of the blackness drooled from his lips into the puddle below. 

And then, from the silence, Jean heard it. Marco let out a sob, a pained, desperate cry that shook Jean down to his core. Jean lowered the axe steadily, eyes fixated on Marco, still staring down at the ground, crying out in pain. Sobbing out incomprehensibly, until…

“Jean….??!” Marco cried out blindly, voice choking around his words.

Jean dropped the axe instantly. It hit the floor with a resounding clunk as Jean’s arms dropped down to his sides. Marco wasn’t looking up at him, he was curled up into himself, his back arched, on his knees, one hand pressed hard against the floor, fingers curled, body shaking, the other lifted to his mouth to wipe away some of the blackness from his lips. 

Jean lowered down slowly, crouching down on one knee as he stared, as he waited. And in the silence, the only sounds Marco’s crying whimpers and his own heavy breathing, Jean watched as Marco lifted his head slowly, eyes rising to meet Jean’s. Big and brown, tired and afraid, and yearning… gazing up at Jean with desperation and fear. Shakily, Marco lifted his hand up, holding it out in the emptiness that rested between them.

“Jean…” he said weakly. 

Jean scrambled forward quickly, moving to Marco’s side and wrapping his arms around him tightly. Marco didn’t say anything, instead letting out a desperate sob against Jean’s chest as he pulled him in tight. Jean tried to quell his breathing, but he felt he might hyperventilate as he scooted them over, away from the puddle of blackness on the floor. 

Marco clung to him, face buried in his chest, arms desperately gripping the fabric of Jean’s shirt, shaking so hard that Jean could hardly hold him tight enough to calm him. 

“E-easy…” Jean whispered, pressing his cheek against Marco’s hair, trying to ignore the way his own body trembled. “I’m… I’m here…” 

His voice was broken, so fragile and disbelieving as he sat there. 

“Is it you?” He asked softly. “Tell me… tell me it’s you…” Jean pleaded again, fingers cradling the back of Marco’s head against his chest. 

Marco lifted his head hesitantly from Jean’s chest, leaning up to face him. Jean’s face was wet with tears, lips trembling, tawny eyes exhausted and broken. Marco raised his hand slowly and placed his trembling fingers against Jean’s cheek. 

“Pl-please… Just tell me…” Jean begged again. 

Marco nodded. 

“It’s me.” 

Jean didn’t say anything for a moment, eyes searching frantically across Marco’s face, hands shaking as they gripped him, before he surged forward, slamming their lips together roughly. It hurt. God did it hurt, but Marco had never felt relief like he did then. It outweighed the pain, the anguish, the memories. Just the feeling of Jean clutching him tightly, like if he were to let go, Marco might disappear. His own arms were frantic, wrapping around Jean, trying his best to return the kiss, before pulling away and crushing the two of them chest to chest in an embrace.

“It was, oh god… Jean, it was so awful, I was... I was…” He whispered into Jean’s ear, fear still coursing through him, pain etching over almost every inch of his body. 

“Shh…” Jean hushed, hands still shaking as they clutched Marco to him. 

Jean might have stayed there for the rest of his days, blissfully ignoring the atrocious world around them, happy enough to hold Marco there until the end. But a pained groan from beside them caught his attention. His eyes landed on Reiner, slowly moving around on the floor again, and he gently separated himself from Marco. 

“No…” Marco whimpered, desperately trying to hold onto Jean for another moment, but Jean held his hands. 

“Reiner needs us, and we need to get out of here, okay?” 

Marco didn’t say anything, merely staring at Jean with a nervous, frightened gaze still. 

“Okay?” Jean said again, with another squeeze to Marco’s hands. “Marco…” 

Marco shook his head and nodded, moving to crawl over to Reiner’s side as Jean did. Reiner groaned again, trying to get his arms underneath himself to push up off the floor, but he was struggling. Jean put a hand on his back. 

“Reiner, easy. We’ll help you up.” 

Reiner groaned and lifted his head, his gaze landing immediately on Marco. His eyes grew wild and he flipped over quickly with a sudden burst of strength before shoving at Marco and scrambling to move away with a frantic shout back against Jean. 

“Reiner!” Jean tried, hands barely gripping Reiner’s shoulders as he struggled to push away, eyes wild and frightened as they stared at Marco. “Reiner, stop!” 

Marco stared back at him, silent, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“It’s him!” Jean said sternly. “Stop, it’s him!” 

Reiner panted heavily, staring hard at Marco, his back against Jean’s chest as he heaved. 

“Marco?” Reiner huffed. 

Marco looked to Jean, then back at Reiner, before nodding slowly. 

“It’s him.” Jean repeated softly. 

Reiner’s breath began to slow as he eased forward, leaning out to touch Marco’s face softly. Marco stared at him nervously as his fingers touched his cheek, flinching slightly at the touch, before Reiner’s hand slid to his shoulder and pulled him forward into a strong hug. 

Jean saw the relief etch into Marco’s features, the pained relief in the clench of his eyes as he hugged Reiner back. 

“Guys…” Jean said. “We should go.” 

Marco and Reiner pulled apart, Reiner bringing a hand up to the back of his head – the spot still cut and bleeding, but slowing a bit, before he turned to Jean. 

“Is it over?” The blonde questioned hesitantly. 

“…I don’t know.” Jean replied, glancing over to Marco, “but we should go now.” 

Reiner nodded slowly, edging to his knee to try and push himself up. Jean didn’t wait before grabbing his arm and helping him hoist up to his feet. Reiner brushed him off as they stood, saying he was fine, and Jean turned back to Marco, crouching beside him to help him up as well. 

Marco stood hesitantly with Jean, before telling him he was okay. Jean wouldn’t release him though, making sure to keep his arm firmly around Marco’s waist, Marco’s arm draped across his shoulders. He wasn’t leaving without him. 

The three of them hobbled towards the front door, taking careful steps to avoid the large, black puddle in the middle of the room as they did. As they approached the door, Reiner stopped suddenly, causing Jean to pause and glance back at him. 

“Wait…” the blonde mumbled sadly.

Reiner had stopped in front of the door to the bedroom Jean and Marco had shared. The blonde was staring firmly at the closed door, feet planted on the floor. Jean glanced over at Marco before gently unwinding his arm from around his shoulder, letting Marco stand on his own as he strode towards Reiner. He put his hand gently on Reiner’s shoulder. Reiner shrugged Jean’s hand off of him as he stepped forward towards the closed door. 

“Reiner…” Jean called out to him, as Marco moved to stand behind them. 

“What’s in there?” He asked Jean softly. Jean turned to look at him, but couldn’t answer, finding the words stick in his mouth. Instead, he turned his head back to watch Reiner. The blonde stood in the doorframe, one hand resting on the door, the other on the doorknob.

“Reiner, please.” Jean pleaded again. 

“I can’t just leave!” He snapped back at Jean sternly, before realizing how he’d yelled. He calmed himself for a moment, turning back to the door. “Just give me a minute… Please…” 

“Okay…” Jean relinquished hesitantly. He felt Marco’s hand rest on his bicep softly, as the brunette moved to stand beside him. 

“Jean. What is in there?” He whispered. 

Jean just shook his head, watching as Reiner opened the door slowly. 

Marco’s hand flung up to his mouth at the sight: Bert lying on the bed, ashen, bloodied, and lifeless still. 

“Oh god…” Jean heard him whimper, and he couldn’t bear to turn around and look at Marco. Couldn’t bear to tell him how this had happened. Couldn’t bear to tell him what he’d done, what Bertholdt had become, what Reiner had had to do. 

Reiner didn’t say anything, silently moving in to the bedroom to stand at the bedside, staring down at Bertholdt. Bertholdt's shirt was bloodier than it had been when he’d left, stained fully now with blood and blackness, his arm gnarled, mangled, and black. But he was still and calm, and peaceful in a way that Jean recognized; a tranquility on his face, the same that Jean had seen on Marco’s lifeless form earlier. Jean wasn’t sure if he was happy for Bertholdt or not. Happy that he didn’t have to suffer this hell anymore. Angry he had had to suffer as much as he did. Pained at what it had done to Reiner. 

And as Jean watched Reiner by the bedside, he realized how unfair it was. How unfair it was that the three of them stood there, while Bertholdt and Armin lay cold and dead, locked away in this cabin like a tomb. And he understood it, in that moment. Understood why Reiner couldn’t leave yet. He understood, why Reiner had to see him one more time. 

Perhaps to promise Bertholdt that they weren’t abandoning him here. That they would be back for him. To promise that Reiner wouldn’t leave him. 

He and Marco watched from the doorway as Reiner knelt down beside the bed, resting his hand over Bertholdt’s uninjured one, leaning forward to place a tender kiss against his lover’s shoulder. They watched as Reiner whispered something soft into his ear, and Jean couldn’t help but notice the small, barely audible sob that slipped past Marco’s lips. 

Reiner didn’t move for a moment, hand still holding onto Bertholdt’s. But Jean knew they couldn’t stay. They could come back, but they couldn’t stay now. With hesitant steps, he moved into the room to stand behind Reiner, trying to ignore the scent of decay that pervaded this room. That same scent of death that had stuck around since the moment they’d uncovered those rotted, putrid birds in the walls. He placed his hand briefly on Reiner’s shoulder, giving it a brief squeeze. 

“Reiner…” he started, getting no reply. “Reiner… please,” Jean tried again. “We can’t stay…” Still no reply. “Reiner, please. We need to go. We’ll come back for him.” But Reiner still didn’t reply. 

Jean lifted his head to look at Marco, still standing in the doorway, hand over his mouth. Jean turned back to Reiner. 

“Reiner, we _have_ to go. We will come back for Bertl… and Armin. We’ll come back. But we have to go _now_.” 

Reiner turned up to look at him, face streaked with fresh tears as he nodded slowly, pushing up off his knees to stand. He leaned over once more and placed a small kiss against Bertholdt’s forehead before letting Jean lead him out of the room, past Marco.

**::**

What the three of them didn’t observe as they hobbled their way slowly towards the front door was the black puddle on the floor beginning to bubble and steam. It began to steadily corrode at the floorboards, eating at the wood as it crackled, before it bubbled further, growing upward, a towering, black figure emerged up from the dripping tar pit it had created.

Jean and Marco slid slowly out the front door into the stillness of the night, Reiner trudging slowly behind them. But as he moved to cross the threshold, a sudden searing pain surged through the base of his skull. He screamed out, dropping down quickly to his knees, Jean and Marco turning around swiftly, staring through the doorway. 

Reiner was on his knees, eyes clenched shut, head reared back as the dark, oily figure behind him clutched at his skull, latching onto the wound there. It was humanoid, but only slightly, its appearance skeletal and emaciated, black and dripping, like a cloak of darkness was swept over its figure. Its extremities were long and bony, one hanging down to the floor, one fixated to the base of Reiner’s head. It had two bright red, angry eyes stared down at them. Marco fumbled back a bit as they looked up at it, clenching onto the back of Reiner’s head as it snarled and hissed down at them. 

Jean reached out for Reiner’s hand, but as he touched him, the thing reared back, dragging Reiner back through the cabin and against the back wall. Reiner collided against the black figure as the two of them hit the wall, the creature erupting in a splash of blackness with a screech as slammed against the wall. Jean and Marco had already darted back inside towards Reiner, but stopped short in their tracks as Reiner collapsed down from the wall, face-first onto the floor. 

Jean put an arm in front of Marco as they watched the blackness creep its way across Reiner’s body, seeping slowly into the wound on the back of his head. It slithered inside Reiner’s head, Reiner’s body beginning to convulse and twitch, rearing up suddenly off the floor with a loud shout. 

Marco and Jean could only watch on in horror, watching as Reiner’s body contorted, as he screamed and shouted out, before he stopped still, eyes landing firmly on the two men standing across from him. Jean saw his golden eyes shift – blackness seeping over their entirety before the pupils shifted from golden to red. 

Reiner shouted out again, clenching his eyes shut, slamming his fists hard against the ground, hard enough to rattle the floor boards. He threw his head up, eyeing Marco and Jean sternly, his eyes shifting before them, fading back into gold for a moment as he spoke out. 

“Go! Run!” Reiner forced between his clenched teeth, before succumbing to another wave of convulsions. 

Jean didn’t waste a moment, hands already on Marco, ushering him around and sprinting the two of them to the door. Approaching the already open door, Jean urged them faster, hearing the snarls that were beginning to grow behind them. But as they neared it, the front windows shattered in an explosion of glass. They shielded their faces as best they could, pausing before reaching the doorway as dark, tangled vines began to slither their way in through the windows. Moving quickly towards them, moving too quickly. 

They stumbled back, Jean throwing a glance over his shoulder at Reiner, still on the floor on the other side of the room, clutching now at his stomach, before rearing back and clutching the back of his head. A violent, piercing scream lurched from his throat, before setting his sights on Jean and Marco. 

He stood slowly, eyes pitch black with a reddish glow to them as he smiled, shoulders twitching, neck cricking hard as he approached the two of them. They moved to back up, finding only vines that were snaking their way along the floor. Marco looked back at the open door, trying to assess how easy it might be to get past them, when suddenly, Reiner was on them. 

With barreling force, Reiner collided with Jean, knocking him back down to the ground as he tried to scramble up and out of the reaching tendrils of the branches. Reiner grabbed ahold of Marco, not struggling at all as he lifted him and hurled him into the door of the bedroom. It slammed open under the impact of his body, and Marco felt the pain inch its way into every fiber of his body, every open wound flaring, every muscle aching as he lie there on the floor, collapsed by the bed which held Bertholdt’s lifeless corpse. 

Reiner trudged over to him, standing over him and snarling down, a sick, pained smile on his face. 

“You’re gunna die here, you pathetic junkie…” 

He reached down, moving to straddle Marco’s smaller form, one hand wrapping its way around his neck. There was a blackness dripping from his mouth, splattering against Marco’s face as he struggled against Reiner’s grip. And there was a moment, as he stared up at Reiner’s face, that Marco could see him still. Behind the blackness of his eyes, he could see the golden orbs shining through, his grip faltering and tightening, as if his very soul were battling it out inside him. 

Marco knew the feeling. That trapped feeling, that feeling of removal, as his very being was sucked out and battered out of his own body. He tried to catch his breath each time Reiner’s hold would falter, but he felt light-headed, the weight atop him too much too bear. 

But Jean was already barreling into the room, tackling Reiner hard and tossing him to the floor as he grabbed Marco up, yelling at him to go. 

Reiner convulsed for a moment more, shouting out in agony, and crawling along the floor as Jean and Marco darted from the room. But as they ran, Jean saw the front door was blocked off, a thick layer of branches barring the opening off as they approached. 

“Fuck!” Jean shouted out, turning back around. 

Marco shouted out when Reiner suddenly staggered quickly and heavily through the bedroom door, and Jean was already moving in front of him to block him off and protect him but Reiner didn’t move towards them. He moved instead towards the kitchen. Jean watched carefully, watching as Reiner, with shaking hands and labored movements grabbed a bottle and a box off the kitchen table. He uncapped the bottle wordlessly and began to fling the liquid inside around the kitchen, the living room, moving past Jean and Marco into the bedroom and emptying the bottle over the beds and the floor. 

He turned his attention quickly to Jean and Marco, and Jean noted that his face was wrenched with agony, but his eyes were bright and golden. Reiner moved quickly, not hesitating as he shoved past the two of them, hurling himself hard against the branches blocking the doorway. He tore and yanked, breaking pieces off as much as he could, creating as best an opening as he could manage. 

Reiner turned back and headed towards the bedroom, pausing in the doorway, Jean could see the blackness hovering at the base of his skull. He stopped and twitched, twitching his neck hard and crying out in pain, knees beginning to go weak, before he gripped the doorframe harder and forced himself to stand fully. 

He turned around to face Jean and Marco, one of his eyes going dark, a small trail of black seeping from it like a tear, the other still golden and human. Reiner grabbed the box from where he’d shoved it into his pocket, and took out a match, eyes never leaving Jean’s as he struck it and tossed it to his right towards the kitchen. 

Jean startled as the fluid on the floor began to catch fire, and he backed away further a couple steps as Reiner lit another and tossed it forward into the living room. It landed on the couch, and the fabric caught within an instant. 

“Reiner!” 

“You have to go.” He grit out, his whole body shaking now as he tried to pry out another match. “You two, go now.” 

“Not without you!” Marco shouted. 

“GO! This is the only way.” 

Jean stared at him before snapping his head towards the book, which lay discarded in the middle of the floor by the kitchen. Images flashed in his head, images of flames and torches, and he turned his head back to Reiner. 

Reiner convulsed hard again, coughing hard as he collapsed back against the doorframe of the bedroom. Blackness began to leak from his nose like inky blood. He raised his head up and looked at Jean. 

“I told you…” He said, smiling softly. “I told you the picture w-was me.” 

“No…” 

“Please, go! I can’t… can’t hold it back much longer.” 

“Reiner, please!” Marco shouted. 

“GO NOW!” Reiner yelled back, blackness beginning to seep over the sclera of his other eye. He shook his head, trying like hell to will it away. 

Jean nodded wordlessly, already beginning to back Marco up towards the door. The flames were building higher in the living room and the seeping their way down the back hallway. 

Reiner pulled another match out of the box and struck it, turning his head to look into the bedroom and look at Bertholdt. He tossed the match in hesitantly, watching as it caught the corner of Jean’s bed, seeping through, and catching the blanket of Marco’s bed, where Bertholdt’s body lay. Reiner pushed up off the doorframe as Jean was ushering Marco through the break in the branches of the doorway. He eased his way onto the bed beside Bertholdt, the flames already licking at Bert’s feet, swallowing up the comforter. He raised his head, just barely able to see to the open door and called out quickly. 

“Jean! JEAN!” 

Jean paused, turning his head to look at him. Reiner smiled softly. 

“Tell my parents… tell my parents I’m sorry… and I love them.” 

Jean shook his head, standing to move up from the opening towards Reiner, convinced he could… convinced he could help him, if he could only get him out. But Marco’s arm reached through the break in the branches, grabbing his sleeve and yanking hard, ushering Jean out of the cabin with him. 

“Go!” Reiner shouted again, as Jean was crawling through the opening in the branches. 

It was so dark out, even with the flames rising up from behind him. But Marco’s hand caught his in the darkness and pulled, tumbling the two of them off the porch and down onto the ground. They scrambled up, tripping over their feet as they stood and ran towards Jean’s Jeep. Already prying the keys out of his pocket, it unlocked it as quickly as he could, body flinching as one of the unbroken side windows of the cabin burst out in a rush of glass and flames. 

He and Marco slid in, and Jean didn’t think as he threw the Jeep into gear, accelerating hard and turning towards the path that led away from the cabin. The ground was wet, but manageable, as the vehicle trudged along the path, bumping hard from the speed Jean was pushing. The water had long since receded, leaving the path traversable. 

They sped by Marco’s Bronco without a word, neither of them daring to break the silence except with the heaving breaths they huffed. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean saw as Marco’s gaze followed the stationary Bronco as they passed, before turning his head front and center, staring wordlessly out the windshield with an expression of sheer dismay. Jean understood, but he couldn’t think about it now. They had to trudge onward. 

Every second that ticked by felt like agony to Jean, each moment filled with distress, filled with a paranoid, anxious fear that they wouldn’t make it out, that they may never find the main road again, that they would be stuck forever in these woods. But the Jeep trudged along dutifully, kicking up mud and muck behind it as it tumbled along the path. And just as the dawn began to break, streaks of light seeping through the mist, Jean saw the main road come into focus. 

He didn’t even bother to hold in the shaking sigh he released, fumbling over to grip Marco’s hand, who gripped his firmly in return, lacing their fingers together without a sound. Their fingers trembled as they clenched together, Jean only slowing the Jeep to turn fully onto the paved road, heading back towards Trost. 

Out on the highway, he didn’t see another car for what felt like miles, but the first other pair of headlights he saw felt like heaven to him. He gripped Marco’s hand more tightly as he stared at the steadily lightening horizon in front of him. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marco turn to face him. He spared a glance over to him, but couldn’t find any words. Couldn’t force a smile. Couldn’t do anything but turn his gaze back to the highway. 

“Where are we going?” Marco asked softly, his voice meek and fragile. 

Jean paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. 

“I don’t know… Away…” 

There was a brief silence, as Marco turned to face forward again, running his thumb gently along Jean’s hand. 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AGH, thanks so much for sticking with me this far. One more chapter left! You guys are wonderful. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com)


	11. The End is the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which, life goes on...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to break this chapter up. 11 was going to be the "epilogue", but it got too long with the last part I wanted to include, so the epilogue is the next chapter, 12. :) 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with the story this long, my dears! <3.

The weeks that followed that weekend were chaos. Marco tried not to think about them too hard. That night, after the fire, after he and Jean had managed to escape, they had retreated back to the world, but Marco couldn’t say for sure that either of them felt truly free. 

They had driven as the sun rose up over the horizon, tendrils of light peeking through the trees along the highway. They had driven for hours, and Marco hadn’t even bothered to ask where they were going, barely glancing at the highway signs. He ached… Emotionally… Physically… An ache that latched itself deep within his chest, sliding its way into his bones. But as he stared at his body, at his bloody clothes, at Jean, all he could notice was the physical markings on them begin to fade. Open wounds began to dry and seal, bruises faded, as if they had never been there in the first place. He had turned his head to Jean, ready to question it, ready to point it out in wonder, but Jean had met his gaze with a nod, an expression on his face that said he had already noticed. 

Marco had turned to watch the road again, to watch the passing trees as they drove, and wondered if his fading marks were the sign that it was over, wondered if it meant the evil was gone and buried, smothered back down to hell beneath the flames and ashes. But even as the wounds faded from his sight, leaving only blood trails in their wake, he knew he’d not forget them. He knew he would not forget their pain, their torment… would not forget the suffering of those he had come to love most. Marco had wondered if there would be scars; part of him had hoped there would be, if only for the reminder of what his friends had sacrificed for him. With a shaky breath, he rested his head against the window, riding in silence with Jean’s hand clasped in his. 

He didn’t know how long they drove, but it felt like an eternity. As they moved across the Trost city limits, Marco didn’t question it, didn’t question when they pulled outside an apartment complex, didn’t question it as they strode up the stairs and sat in Jean’s apartment in silence together, sat shoulder to shoulder on the floor against the wall, hands linked, fingers laced while the sun’s rays slipped in through the windows. 

They didn’t leave Jean’s apartment for the remainder of the day – sitting together in a somber silence, not wanting to eat, not bothering to shower, hardly daring to speak. Until finally, as the sun was beginning to set again, and as Marco began to watch its departure with a glint of terror and panic in his eyes, Jean had glanced up from under his still-filthy hair, eyeing Marco with a listless trepidation. 

“We have to go to the police…” he had said. 

“And tell them what?” Marco had asked in a hushed whisper. 

Jean had dropped his head again, shoulders slumping. 

“I don’t know.” 

“They’ll lock us away… No one will believe us if we tell them.” 

“I know.” 

Marco had leant his head back against the wall and stared up towards the ceiling, fingers dragging over the tears in his clothes, the tears underneath which had been vile, gaping wounds of gnarled flesh and blood, but now revealed only fresh skin. 

“We’ll say it was a fire…” Jean had said solemnly, not looking up to meet Marco’s eyes when he had turned to look at him. “It’s the best we can do.”

**::**

Their report to the authorities regarding the fire was received without much questioning, much to their surprise. Jean and Marco received comforting words and condolences, as the authorities began the investigation of the site. Jean and Marco had refused to return, blaming emotional trauma from the loss of their friends. The authorities seemed to understand, offering them warm words and counsel if they needed it.

They were called brave. They were called lucky and blessed. They felt like neither. 

Official investigation of the site had found the scant remains of three young adult males, charred bones and mostly ash, and only identifiable by Marco and Jean’s own confirmation. Fire marshals ruled it a house fire, possibly electrical, but impossible to tell due to the sheer extent of the damage. They had thanked the rains that the fire hadn’t spread to the surrounding forest, and Jean and Marco could do nothing but nod and pretend to be grateful. Cause of death for Armin Arlert, Bertholdt Hoover, and Reiner Braun was ruled to be a combination of smoke inhalation and exposure to flame. 

Family and friends had been the hardest. Eren had met Jean with arms swinging, punches flying with screams and tears, blaming and shouting and fighting and weeping, clinging onto Jean after his arms had given up their fight. Mikasa had stood in stony, empty silence, placing a gentle hand on Eren’s shoulder and pulling him into a hug when he had released Jean. Jean had tried to avoid the broken look behind her normally placid expression. 

For the sake of Mikasa and Eren's sanity, Jean and Marco had told them nothing of what had really happened. 

Marco figured dying in a fire was better, anyway. Fire burns and maims and kills, but not like the fires and demons of the deepest parts of hell. It was best they not know. 

Reiner and Bertholdt’s families had done nothing but weep, hugging Jean and Marco, telling them through broken gazes and wet eyes that they were happy that at the very least, not all was lost. At the very least, Jean and Marco had made it out okay. 

Jean didn’t have the heart to tell them they would never be okay, because at the end of the day, what was better? Death or life after seeing the raw face of hell? 

He told them that their sons loved them very, very much. 

After all the investigation, Marco couldn’t help but ask: did they find anything resembling a book in the ruin? The team had looked confused, but told him that no, no book was found. Told him no book could have made it through a blaze like that anyway. 

Marco knew better. But he didn’t protest.

**::**

**Four Years Later**

_“Marco…”_  
 _“Maaaaaarco…”_  
 _“MARCO!”_

Marco awoke with a start, eyes unfocused in the dark room, gazing up at the ceiling. It took him a moment, his eyes wide, his breath coming out heavy and uneasy, before he managed to calm himself, trying his best to shake off the dream he’d had. He couldn’t quite remember the details now, but it had been violent, as his dreams always were now. It had been dark, with mangled flesh and open wounds, and the searing pain of hell within him. It had left his heart pounding in his chest, pulsing with a hard thump-thump-thump. 

It didn’t matter how long it had been, how many years had passed: he still had trouble sleeping. He imagined he may never rest peacefully again. The nightmares came and went, making sure his mind was never far from the horrid places he had seen and the things he had done. 

With a deep, calming breath he glanced over at Jean, lying in their bed to his right, covers pulled up over his face, snuggled up and cozy. Marco smiled and turned steadily away, onto his side, careful not to stir too much and wake Jean. These last few years, Jean had been the one to comfort him in the middle of the night when he awoke shaking or crying, to ease his worries and fear when the dreams had become too real, too vivid. Jean had been the one to understand, as he suffered through his own dreams alongside Marco. Jean deserved a night of peace. 

Marco ran a hand across his face, feeling a slight wetness by his mouth. Ugh, he must have been drooling, what a pretty picture that must be. All the more reason not to wake Jean. Marco pulled the covers a bit more tightly over his shoulders and glanced at the clock. 

3:33 am. Still time to sleep. 

Slipping his leg over, he pressed it against Jean’s, reveling in the small amount of comfort his lover's presence provided. With a small sigh, he let his eyes rest on the bright red numbers as his blinks became heavier and heavier, eyelids just about ready to give him and slip back into sleep. But just as his eyes were slipping closed, just as the deep blanket of sleep was settling over him, a loud, abrupt **thunk** resounded in the silence. Marco’s eyes flew open, his head darting up to glance around the room. 

Shadows from lights outside danced across the walls, but the room seemed empty. He swallowed thickly, and steadily rested his head back against his pillow, still eyeing the empty room cautiously. He breathed a small sigh; he was just being paranoid. Someone in the apartment next door must have dropped something, that’s all. 

He closed his eyes again, pressing his face deeply into the pillow, letting sleep steadily overtake him once again. But another hard **thunk** , louder this time, had him jolting upright in the bed. Fingers clenched in the sheets, he waited, breath uneven, as he stared across the room into the shadows. But there was nothing, not that he could see, at least. And the room was quiet again, save for the sounds of passing cars. 

Steadily, he began to lie back down, willing himself to just _relax_ , and go to sleep. He was imagining things, and it wouldn’t be the first time either. But as he was lowering back to the bed, a rough sound of scraping, like nails grating against the wall, echoed from the darkness. 

Not waiting, he jolted up again, moving quickly to his knees, ready to brace himself for whatever might be lurking in the room. He could feel the tremors coursing through him, fear chilling its way up and down his spine as he stared uneasily into the darkness of the room. Reaching a hand back, not moving his gaze, he gave Jean a gentle shake.

“Jean.” Marco whispered softly. 

But Jean, the heavy sleeper he always was, didn’t stir. Marco shook him a bit more firmly, still not daring to pry his eyes away from the other side of the room, whispering more urgently. 

“ _Jean_.” 

But Jean still didn’t respond. With an uneasy breath, Marco dared to glance back at him, giving him another shake. 

“Jean, there’s something here…” He tried again. But still, nothing. 

Furrowing his brow, he moved slowly on the bed, turning around to face Jean, eyes still darting back and forth between him and the dark room. He shook him again, watching his face, but saw… nothing. No movement, no flinching. Panic began to rise up inside him, hands beginning to shake as they steadily reached forward and clutched the covers. 

He couldn’t help the panicked, frightened scream that left his lips as he yanked the covers down. 

Jean lie motionless on the bed, the sheets beneath him _drenched_ in red, his throat ripped and mangled, as if it had been torn out, his pale skin coated in a thick layer of blood. Marco flung the covers down, eyes catching a glimpse at his hands in the poor light from the window. They looked red… His hands looked fucking red. 

_No…_ he thought frantically. 

Marco lifted on arm slowly to his face, hesitantly running the back of his hand against his chin and mouth. The wetness was still all around his mouth, and when he pulled his hand down, he saw only red smeared across the back of it. Mouth falling agape, wordless whimpers dribbling off his blood-covered lips, he glanced down at his chest, noting the streaks of red that seemed to have dripped down from his mouth. 

_God, no… No, no, no, no… It’s not real…_

“Maaaaaarco….” Something cooed from behind him. His back stiffened against the noise that felt like it was slithering its way up into his ear. His whole body was shaking, unable to quell the tremors coursing over him. He clenched his eyes shut, tried to tell himself it wasn’t real, it couldn’t be real. 

Suddenly, there was something grabbing ahold of him, yanking him back by the neck. With bruising force it pulled him backwards, dragging him down onto the floor. He couldn’t move, lying spread eagle on the hardwood floor, he was immobile, hardly able to breathe. He couldn’t see anything, but he could feel it. He knew this feeling, this painful, burning feeling, invisible vines winding their way around his limbs, thorns digging deep into his flesh. Marco tried to cry out, but the words stuck in his throat. 

Eyes clenched shut, he could feel it, the sick, wet sensation of something dripping across his face. When he opened his eyes, he was met with a figure he’d hoped never to see again: his own face, his own body, mangled and mutilated, missing its right eye and right arm, an abomination wrought from the bowels of hell. It crouched on top of him, its one intact eye glowing bright red, its mangled mouth grinning, dripping dark, oily droplets against his skin. It leaned down close to his face, almost nose to nose as Marco stared upward at it, paralyzed, frozen in fear, unable to speak, unable to move. 

“ _Look what you did…_ ” it hissed down at him, its one arm gesturing towards the blood-soaked bed. 

Marco tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t, body stuck as this thing bore down over him. It smiled again, leaning its bloody, mangled face down close to his, forcing its lips hard against Marco’s. He tried to fight it, pursing his lips together tightly, but it was no use. He knew it before he felt it. The hard, scathing force of a thorny vine, slithering its way out of this abomination’s mouth, forcing its way into his own. 

_No… God, please. No. Not again._

But it was already done, forcing its way down his throat as he gagged around it, feeling himself breaking and burning from the inside out, the bile building up, his scream forced back down his throat along with the wretched vine. 

He clenched his eyes shut, bracing himself, willing himself to fight, forcing himself to struggle. It would not take him again. Marco flailed his limbs and shook his head. One arm came free, then the other, followed quickly by his legs as he kicked hard, arms flailing and thrashing to try and rid himself of the grip around his wrists. But when he opened his eyes again, the figure above him was gone. 

Eyes open wide, he realized he was in bed, Jean leaning over him, hands wrapped firmly around Marco's wrists to stop his desperate thrashing. 

“-t’s okay, Marco! Marco, it’s me, it’s just me, calm down.” Jean said, as Marco stared up at him with wild, frightened eyes, sobs breaking past his lips. 

“You were dreaming… It’s okay.” 

Marco sat up quickly, breathing heavily as he buried his face into Jean’s chest. Jean didn’t hesitate before wrapping his arms around him. Marco, ear pressed to Jean’s chest, listened hard with clenched eyes, listened for the faint thump-thump-thump. He couldn't have hidden the way he whimpered with relief at the sound of that heartbeat, and he didn’t even try to stop the way he shook from head to toe. 

“You were just dreaming…” Jean whispered again, running a hand through Marco’s hair. “I’m here.” 

Marco clung to him, even as Jean eased them back to lie down, planting gentle kisses along Marco's forehead. 

“I’m here, baby. I'm here.”

**::**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure to check out the next chapter for the Epilogue! Hope you've enjoyed it so far. 
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).


	12. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the end is the beginning is the end.

**::**

“We been walking for darn near two hours now. Where even is this place, Tim?” 

“I think we’re getting close.” 

Danny stumbled a bit over a fallen limb, as he tried his very best to keep up with his brother as he trudged them through the woods. The sky above was bright and blue, but the canopy of trees above them made it feel like dusk. Only a select few beams of sunlight making their way down to the ground. 

“Mom’s gunna be real sore if she finds out we skipped today.” Danny muttered softly. 

“She won’t find out, dumbass.” 

“I’m telling her you said that.” 

“Do you wanna see this place or not?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then quit whining and come on.” 

The boys hiked further, winding their way along the uneven terrain. Moving past the fork in the road, they trekked along the overgrown path determinedly. 

“Woah… What is that?” 

“It looks like a truck.” 

Up ahead was an old, rusted up Bronco. Abandoned and long-since overtaken by the foliage, it stuck out like an ancient ruin poking up through the tangled vines and branches that had invaded its interior as if the woods were trying to swallow it whole. 

The boys approached it slowly, Tim plowing ahead of Danny, standing up on the footstep by the driver’s side door to peer in through the window. The inside was covered in dirt and overgrown branches and vines and leaves, the foliage invading the small duffel bag that lay abandoned in the passenger seat. 

“Wicked…” Tim whispered, gazing inside, trying to get a better look.

“How long ya reckon it’s been here?” 

“Long time is my guess. Come on, the place shouldn’t be much further.” 

As they moved along the path, an open space began to come into view. The closer they got, the more it became clear this hadn’t always been empty. Burnt remains of lumber and furniture, stone and rock lying about was enough to imply that this had once had structure. A couple of old, rusted up cars sat abandoned and decrepit. The only intact thing in the area was a small, old shed towards the back of the plot. 

“Woah…” Danny whispered softly, eyeing the rubble. Small plants were beginning to peek their way up through the dirt and stone, the land finally rejuvenated after the blaze of fire. He was careful not to touch anything as he strode across the land behind Tim. “What happened here?”

Tim grinned wickedly. 

“House fire. Three guys _died_ in it.” Tim said with wide, dramatic eyes.

“Gosh…” Danny mumbled, a nervous look on his face. 

“But I heard it wasn’t no ordinary house fire. I heard it was somethin' _evil_.” 

“Aw, you’re fulla it.” 

“No, really. I heard it was some voodoo shit.” 

“Don’t say the s-word!” 

“Heard that the devil burnt this place to the ground, took those three guys with ‘im.” 

“Who told ya that?” 

“Devon and Marie at school.” 

They meandered around the decimated area some more, before something caught Tim’s eye. Something skin colored and poking out of the dirt. It was underneath a layer of dirt and grime, lying in the middle of the plot. He moved over to it, brushing off the dirt and picking it up. It was heavier than he expected and felt like thick leather. 

Danny couldn't help but look around too hoping perhaps to find something like his brother. As Tim held the book, too big for his arms, Danny let his eyes scan the dirt. A small glint of something shiny and silvery caught his attention. He leaned down and grabbed it, pulling up a silver ring on a long chain. The metal was dirty, the infinity sign embossed in it caked with dirt, but he couldn't help but smile as he touched it. 

“I found a ring." he murmured excitedly, moving to stand beside his brother. He glanced down at the object in Tim's arms. "What’s that?” Danny asked softly. 

“Some kinda book.” 

He opened it slowly, flipping through the pages, the grotesque images staring up at him. Danny curled his lip at the sight. Drawings of skeletal figures, covered in blood and cuts, with knives and torches and fire. Danny shook his head.

“Gosh, it’s awful… Put it down.” Danny said, stepping back a bit.

“Aw, come on, it’s just a book, ain’t no harm come from a book, ya wuss.” 

Tim flipped over a couple more pages, pausing when he found a small piece of torn up notebook paper shoved between two pages. The edges of the paper were a little burnt, and it had a film of ash and dirt on it, but it was overall intact. The picture on the page the notebook paper was with was of a skeletal form, wrenching its way up out of the ground.

“This is so weird…” Tim said, a small smile on his face. “Wicked cool.” 

“Let it alone, will ya?” 

“Looks like some weird ol’ language on the pages, but someone wrote something down here.” 

“Can we go, please?” 

“Hang on, will ya?” Tim snapped back, turning back to the little piece of notebook paper, with neatly printed words on it. “Maybe it's a translation. It says… 

_“Kunda…”_

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! This was such fun to write! I adore horror and I love the Evil Dead, so this was such a fun project. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it, I hope you got a few good creeps from it! I would welcome any and all reviews, feedback, or constructive criticism you'd like to share! 
> 
> You're all wonderful! Thanks again for reading, y'all.
> 
> MWAH. 
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for any feedback you guys want to give me. While this isn't my first fanfic (have written many over the years), this was my first attempt at a Jeanmarco (and Reibert too) fic. I really hope you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all.
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://commodorecliche.tumblr.com)


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